When We Start Killing
by Riddelly
Summary: The Master is back, and at the side of a mysterious Irish psychopath. Timelines merge as the 10th and 11th Doctors, their companions, Torchwood, and a certain detective-and-blogger team join together to prevent a massive alien threat from demolishing Earth. Wholock.
1. Martha Jones

**A/N **_I've been hinting about this story in the author's notes of my others for several months now, and here it finally is. To make it work, some things had to be made slightly AU, and I'll explain those bits in each chapter as we go. Martha and Mickey, the first characters introduced, are the ones most altered. I have it so that, after Martha met the Doctor, she teamed up with Mickey, who fell back into their reality through some sort of random crack, possibly the Torchwood rift. After that, they started hunting together, but that much is explained in the chapter itself. There's a bit of an info dump in this one, but I implore you to hang in there, because I can promise that future chapters are much more action-filled. Each one is in a different character's POV. __This fic does, in time, contain a number of pairings, including slash, het, and femslash__. Enjoy!_

**Rated T** _for language, violence, and implied sexual content_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

Martha Jones

We've been seeing what you wanted; got us cornered right now  
Falling asleep from our vanity might cost us our lives  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

It amazes me that no one else recognizes the Master when he finally makes an appearance again. After all, he is still a common subject of conversation both casual and formal—Harold Saxon, the charming and yet chilling Prime Minister who vanished mysteriously after the assassination of President Winters. Where has he gone? Is he even alive? No one knows. No one except for me, the Doctor, Lucy Saxon, my parents, Jack, and Tish. The seven of us are the sole bearers of a year of terror, of the memories that reflected the true man the Master had been.

So, perhaps the population isn't quite as familiar with his face at this point—it has been several months, after all—but _still. _He's _right there_, looking entirely normal, striding through the street in a black hoodie and dark sweatpants. I'm not sure what to think when I first see him. I do a double take, or perhaps a quadruple take, absorbing the slightly shaggier blond hair, the new beard scruff, the more ragged outfit that nonetheless fails to disguise the face and figure that I know all too well. I pause mid-stride in the middle of the sidewalk, and my hand instinctively flies out, laying itself on Mickey's shoulder.

"Martha?" he asks in confusion, but I don't answer. My eyes are wide as I see another man hurrying over to where the Master stands among the oblivious, mulling crowds, arms folded tight over his chest, face impassive. This new person has rather alarming musculature that strains against his already large suit, and though I can't see his face from where I'm standing, I take note of his extremely short-cut, dark brown hair. The Master's expression breaks into an icy grin and he gives a small nod to his visitor before whisking around on his heel and striding off into the mass of people surrounding him.

"Martha, are you—" Mickey begins again, but I'm not listening. I'm running, dragging him along behind me, expertly dodging my way through everyone on the street, not taking my eyes off the back of that blond-haired head.

"That man," I growl, the words slipping out between the swift huffs of air that I take in as I sprint. "The blond one in all black. Do you see him?"

"Yeah, what about—?"

"Long story short, he's a psychopathic mass murderer who's supposed to be dead. Now, come on, we can't let him get away!"

"But…" Mickey tugs his arm free of my iron grip, and our pace heightens considerably without the handicap. Now I think we might actually be gaining on him, though we're definitely turning plenty of heads in the process. I grit my teeth and let my feet pound harder against the cement.

"He basically killed a tenth of the human race and enslaved the rest. But then that never actually happened. See, it…" I cut myself off, aware of how ridiculous my words sound. "Just—just trust me, alright?"

"What, you mean like an… alternate reality?" Mickey questions. The words sound oddly familiar in his mouth, as though he has no trouble whatsoever with the concept.

"Of a type, yeah," I allow.

"Well, then." Suddenly, his voice is quieter, grimmer. "I've had my share of those."

I would shoot him a questioning look if not for the fact that we just turned a corner and now find ourselves in a much more deserted alleyway. In fact, the only other person here is the Master. I stumble to an abrupt halt, thrusting out an arm to stop Mickey, but it's too late. There's no way that the Master hasn't heard us.

He stops walking suddenly, his back still facing us, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. Then, slowly, he's turning, his familiar brown eyes settling on the two of us, a feral smile curling up the edge of his mouth.

"Miss Martha Jones," he murmurs. I hate how my name sounds in his voice, twisted into a snarl, the _r _over-pronounced and the _o _too accentuated. I glare back at him, though, refusing to acknowledge the faint prickle of fear dancing down my spine.

"Mr. Saxon," I breathe in response, and the weight of the handgun concealed inside my leather jacket seems to have increased tenfold. I unzip the garment and whip out the weapon swiftly, pointing it at his chest, my aim firm and steady. "You're supposed to be dead."

"And so I am." His throat and mouth move in the manner of a short laugh, but no sound escapes his lips. "Full of surprises, aren't I?"

"Who are you?" Mickey challenges from slightly behind me, and I feel his fingertips squeeze my shoulder, a mix between a warning and a possessive statement.

The Master's eyes flicker briefly towards Mickey, and a silent scowl flits over his face before he returns his focus to me. "I came back," he hisses, grinning. "I came back, because my work here wasn't quite done. After all, look at the mess you've gone and made. You and your precious Doctor."

I don't really notice the sudden tightening of the fingers beside my neck, completely concentrated on listening intently to the Master's every word.

"I mean, come on. I had everything perfect, but then _you, _Miss Jones—you had to _fuck _it all up, now, didn't you?"

I let the harsh word sail over my radar. It's not important right now.

"You, with your story, with your word—_Doctor… _so pathetic, so utterly pathetic, you were. Alright, so you made the man you're oh-so-smitten with all sexy-looking again, good for you. But then you had to take it farther. You and your Doctor could've hopped into that blue box and sailed away, to another galaxy—and I would've let you, you know. I would've," he insists when I emit a harsh snort of disbelief. "But, no, your own happiness wasn't enough. You destroyed everything, everything I'd spent a _year _making! You destroyed it, Martha Jones, erased it, deleted it—and then, of course, darling Lucy had to take things farther. Had to _kill _me." He flinches ever so slightly on the last sentence, as if it costs him too much to mention such a weakness. "I wouldn't stay dead, no. Of course not. I wasn't done here."

"But _how?_" I demand, still gripping the gun firmly. He has to answer my questions, or I'll shoot him. And I _will _shoot him, too. All this hunting with Mickey has toughened me up. I'm ready to kill. "You refused to regenerate. I saw!"

"There's _regeneration,_" he whispers, as though reporting massive news to a gossip-hungry schoolgirl, "and then there's _reincarnation. _This time, I managed to go for the latter."

"No." I shake my head unconsciously, unable to accept that. "You _can't. _You're gone. You're dead!"

"Not anymore," he beams. "I'm back, I'm ready to resume where I left off—and _you, _Miss Jones, have walked squarely into my trap."

I almost shoot him just at those last words, my reflexes springing to tell me that I'm in danger, that I might as well take him with me. But before I can so much as cock the gun, there's a sharp twinge in the shoulder that Mickey's hand isn't on, and my arm spasms, disrupting my aim. My free hand flies to the injury and stumbles across a foreign object, something long and slender and cool. I dislodge it with a slight jerk and let it fall into my palm, bringing it before my eyes. It's a combination between the image of the dart and the fact that I'm seeing it in double that clues me in to what's happened to us.

_No, _I think as the weight of Mickey's hand slips from my shoulder, but the pavement under my feet is already tilting ominously, and I have to stumble sideways to stay upright. The gun hits the ground with a ringing thud as my hands fly out, seeking purchase on the side of one of the garages lining the alleyway. The Master's maniacal laugh bubbles in my ears, even though I can no longer quite discern his figure among the tapestry of colors playing out before my eyes. _No. No. No. _

"Nighty-night!" the Master crows, and yet—perhaps it's just the sedative disrupting my mind, but it doesn't sound quite like him. This voice is smoother, higher, almost—

_Irish?_

But before my thoughts can take me any farther, the wall disappears from behind my hands and the ground from under my feet, and everything collapses into two dimensions, then nothing.

* * *

My head hurts.

It's uncomfortable, and I'm not particularly keen on opening my eyes, since that's likely to send shockwaves of agony through my already sore skull. It's better to just lie here in a sort of suspended indecision, like I'm teetering on the brink of something, tingling with pain that hasn't quite been realized. I'll have to give in eventually, but this is good for now. Small surges of achiness dance across my parietal fissure, tickling at the spot where my neck joins my head—I should know the name of that little point, I realize vaguely. I _am _a medical student, after all. Well—I was, before… before I started hunting aliens with Mickey, that's it.

Mickey. In my woozy state, thoughts of him begin to fill my mind, and I don't try particularly hard to hold them at bay. They're easier to mull over, after all, than anything about our present situation.

Mickey Smith is an enigma. Hard as I constantly attempt to understand him, he remains stubbornly secretive, covering things up with a change of topic and a slight smile, white teeth gleaming against his dark complexion. He's intriguing, very much so, his personality constantly switching back and forth between war-hardened fighter and slightly meek, peace-seeking young man, like he possesses two physically identical personas and flicks them on and off at will. There's also an odd air about him that feels almost like he's not from this world, like he's one of the aliens that the Doctor and I saw so many of. But he insists on his humanity, stating simply that he was "living here, went somewhere else for a while, managed to come back."

Well, it's nice that he did come back—for me, anyways. Because the thing is, as little as I understand him, I can't deny that I think I might be in love.

I like to think that I've had my share of experience with love. Boyfriends have come and gone at a relatively steady rate throughout my life, for one thing. And, of course, there's the Doctor to contend with—he was something else, really, something that no other man has ever been for me before or since. He was brilliant, a genius—and a very sweet, humor-filled, selfless genius like that. But the thing about him is that he was _lonely, _so, so lonely, and that was always so _clear _to me somehow—despite his boundless energy, the Doctor was always crying on the inside. He needed help from someone, and that person would never be me. It might've been Rose Tyler, but she was gone now, so it was pretty much irrelevant. The best thing I could have done for both of us was to leave, so that he could meet someone who could really take care of him, who wouldn't be blinded and twisted by her own selfish desires for his unconditional happiness.

Then there was Tom. Dr. Thomas Milligan—another Doctor, yes, but a much more human one, in all ways. He was a regular person, really, an average man with an average life. He didn't know that he'd become the equivalent of a soldier, he didn't know that he'd lived on a planet where humans were entering extinction, he didn't know that he'd jumped in front of the Master's laser beam to save my life, sacrificing himself in the process—he didn't know, because those things hadn't happened to him. I didn't understand how I could remember them, not really. The Doctor—the _alien _Doctor—had never been all that good at explaining how all his paradoxes and reversals and rewrites worked. That was okay, though. Because what I knew—what I knew absolutely and positively—was that the side of Tom that I'd seen did exist, somewhere, somehow, on some level of his being. And that was enough cause for me to pursue him for no short amount of time. Months passed, and I kept trying, kept on trying to get some of that hero out of him—but it just refused to come. Seemingly, the only thing that could transform him properly was, in fact, the end of the world, and despite my attraction to him, I wouldn't go to measures that extreme in order to make him the person I remembered.

But then Mickey came along.

And Mickey, well—the thing about him was that he absolutely and completely was everything Tom had once but now never become. Mickey was brave, Mickey was heroic, and Mickey was— well— kickass_. _It didn't hurt that he seemed to know the Doctor, too. And yet those glimpses still shone through occasionally—fragments, reflections—of a quieter, shyer, more skittish person. And I didn't mind, because I liked that, too. I liked having someone to care for, someone who relied on me at least somewhat. Especially when, the other half of the time, he was so strong. I couldn't have asked for better, not really (and when I told this to myself, I tried not to think about the Doctor). It was perfect.

And so Mickey and I started working together, right from that day when he appeared out of the blue. He knew aliens as well as I did, and together, we hunted them down, found where they were getting dangerous, got rid of them. At one point, we met Torchwood, Jack's organization, and even joined forces with them for a while before deciding that we worked better alone. We were a duo, Mickey and Martha, Smith and Jones. And we were _good. _I became nearly half the legend that I was during the year that had never truly existed, and it felt great. Being with Mickey felt great. It was all perfect.

I'm not sure exactly what point at which we actually got together. It was a vague thing, really, and there wasn't any one moment at which I realized he liked me as much as I did him. The knowledge dawned on me gradually, like tides washing away sand to reveal long-lost treasures, glinting and sparkling in the sunlight. I can recall perfectly the first time we kissed, though—during a quiet night, we'd been tracking an unfamiliar alien and decided to camp out in the hills. I was sitting outside in the grass, silently watching the stars, on guard in case our quarry dared to approach our base. I didn't hear him come out from the tent where I'd thought he was sleeping, just felt the sudden gentle weight of a hand on my back. I knew it was him instantly, and didn't so much as flinch, instead letting my eyes drift shut against the unmarred blaze of the stars overhead. In the complete silence interrupted only by the ambient purr of crickets, I felt him crouch down next to me, breathed in his scent as an arm settled gently around my shoulder. I suppose we both must have turned towards each other at the same moment, but I wasn't even conscious of moving into the kiss, simply because it felt so natural, so utterly perfect and _right. _

Things went quickly after that, and our relationship escalated, until we were pretty much a married couple—save, of course, the fact that we weren't actually married. Our bond was no longer thoroughly professional, and everything worked out even better that way. My life and his both became a steady flow of action, of necessary violence, rescue missions, special operations assigned to us by ourselves, and, of course, each other. I don't know how long that could've lasted. Probably quite a while.

If only it hadn't been interrupted, leaving us here—a train of thought that brings me back around to my original question.

Where's Mickey?

The bits of knowledge that have been drifting around in my brain like fish in too large of a tank suddenly fly together, forming a mosaic of memory. _The Master. _The Master is back, and he knocked me out—probably Mickey, too; he couldn't do his job too thoroughly, could he? I become slowly aware of the fact that I'm lying on a cold, hard floor, and at a rather awkward angle, too—someone clearly dumped me here without too much care for my own personal comfort, a conjecture that's reinforced by the throbbing bruises spotted along my arms, legs, and back.

Slowly, reluctantly, I let my eyelids inch open. It's not dark as I was expecting: rather, the air is full of a dirty yellow light, and above me is a damp ceiling speckled with grungy-looking water drops that threaten to fall at any moment. I groan and turn slowly onto my side, trying to ignore the pain all down my body. There's Mickey, blinking his eyes open a few feet away from me. He's propped up against the wall, which seems to be made of cement, his head sagging. A constant, echoing _drip-drip _fills our little prison cell, which can't be more than fifty square feet. It's pretty much a cube of solid, rough concrete, except for the side that I'm now facing, which is thin but presumably strong plastic with a few holes to allow oxygen through.

Wait.

"This looks like Torchwood," I murmur aloud. And indeed it does bear quite a resemblance to the underground holding cells where Jack keeps his collection of Weevils. What are we doing here? A sick lurch clenches my stomach as I imagine the Master taking over the Hub, imprisoning Jack and killing the rest, killing Ianto and Gwen and Tosh and Owen—

"Very _good,_" a voice congratulates, the words punctuated by the harsh noise of a single pair of hands clapping. My head snaps up, and I try to ignore the flash of agony that accompanies the swift movement. It's not the Master who's speaking now. It's the other person, the one I heard right before blacking out. The Irish voice.

Standing outside, hands now silenced and in his Westwood suit pockets, is an oddly normal-looking man. He's of average build, perhaps just a bit thin, with impeccably tidy clothing, pale skin, large oil-black eyes, and hair of a similar shade. He's smiling at me, mouth closed, looking rather pleased.

"Who are you?" I ask in a whisper.

Instead of replying, he begins to pace back and forth in front of the plastic, eyes now on the ground, and builds on his original statement. "We did model our little prison here after the ugly basement of your… _Torchwood. _It has a good atmosphere, don't you think?"

A particularly large and nasty-smelling drop of water takes this moment to fall into my hair, slipping down my neck and giving me chills, but I don't react.

"Martha," Mickey gasps from behind me. Glaring at the man one final time, I retreat, crawling across the meager area of flooring towards where he sits, rubbing at the side of his head.

"Are you okay?" I inquire softly, reaching a hand out to touch the side of his face. His chocolate brown eyes meet mine, and understanding passes between us. I have lots to explain to him, but it can wait. It can wait until this Irishman is out of our way and, preferably, _we're _out of this awful cell.

"Yeah, fine… fine. Where…?"

I shake my head to show that I have no idea where we are, then look back at the suited man, who's still watching us. "Who _are _you?" I repeat.

"Well, if you _must _know," he grumbles, voice taking a low swerve on the _must, _"my name is Jim. Jim Moriarty. Heard of me?"

I haven't, and I can tell by his sly grin that he doesn't expect me to. This Moriarty man seems to take pride in secrecy rather than fame, a trait that, however grudgingly, I can half-admire. "Do you know the Master?" I continue, wondering if he'll willingly answer my questions—even if I don't have a gun to point at him like I did for the subject of my most recent inquiry.

"Know him? _Know _him?" Moriarty echoes, looking almost offended. "Why, my dear Miss Jones, how could I not? Mr. Saxon, the great Prime Minister who _almost _took humans to a whole new level of discovery and knowledge… but he was stopped, wasn't he? Stopped by you _scum._"

I shake my head quickly, wincing against the pain that ensues. "No—Mr. Moriarty, please listen. The Master—Mr. Saxon—isn't who he says he is. He's… evil, he's twisted, he's prepared to kill to get what he wants… he might even kill _you_." I stare imploringly in his eyes, hoping that my desperation is communicated. Moriarty doesn't seem like the type of person who has to be dragged into an affair like this. Maybe I can even persuade him to let Mickey and me go.

"Hm, really? A _murderer._" Something in the dark-haired man's voice sends light shivers down my spine, which I try to ignore. "Don't you worry, _dear… _I believe I'm quite familiar with murderers… quite familiar indeed."

I swallow, instinctively pulling away slightly from him, watching with wide eyes.

"…Aren't I… _Mr. Saxon?_"

The Master comes slinking into my view, hood now pulled over his head, smirking cruelly. "Oh, yes. Mr. Moriarty is—might I say—a _professional._ After all…" He nips at the edge of his thumb, and his eyes glint out under the shade of his hood, cold and insane. "I only take the best."

"So is that what he is, then?" My fear is momentarily dispelled by disgust. "He's your—your companion? Your little destroying-the-world chum?"

"Something along those lines, yes."

I fall back, stumbling against the wall and slowly sinking to the wet ground, shaking my head frantically. Mickey's arm drapes itself across me, and I scoot up next to him, suddenly trembling. This can't be happening. It _can't. _The Master is doubtless the most evil person I'd ever laid eyes on, and now—now he's back, with this… this Moriarty character in tow… both of them terrify me, if I'm to be completely honest, and now we're imprisoned here… there has to be a way to get out. There _has _to. I run my hands up and down my body, feeling frantically for any of the concealed weapons that I had kept there, but it seemed that the only thing they'd left me with was my tight-fitting black outfit.

"What… what are you planning?"

"Is that even a question?" the Master shoots back incredulously. "Everything, Miss Jones, absolutely everything. Everything that I couldn't manage before… the world will be mine, and this time, time won't be reversed. I have plans… and so does my… _comrade _here. We're ready, this time, readier than ever before. And, oh…" His face softens for a moment into a babyish, pouting expression, and his voice heightens to match it. "Little Miss Martha Jones won't be there to _save the world _this time. The Doctor is _useless _without his little companions," he goes on fiercely, "absolutely useless. I'll get them all, one at a time… get them all and put them into my little cells."

"_Our _little cells," Moriarty corrects suddenly, still as an ice sculpture save the flickering of his huge, black eyes.

"Of course," the Master agrees smoothly, reaching a hand up and running it ever so lightly along the other man's back, fingers dancing fragilely down his spine. The intimate touch surprises me, and for a moment, it strikes me that perhaps there's more going on between the two than business. But before I have the time to consider this theory any farther, they're pulling back, retreating out of my sight, and I'm left with Mickey, surrounded by silence broken only by the dripping that comes from all around me.

"No," I whisper. "_No._"

"Martha…" Mickey's voice causes me to turn and face him. His more delicate side is shining through now, glimmering in his softer-than-usual brown eyes. "Who is he? And how does he know the Doctor?"

I sigh slowly, resting my head against his shoulder. "He's called the Master, and he's… another Time Lord, you know, like the Doctor. He's the only other one left. And lots happened with him last year—well…" I struggle, trying to explain. "I suppose that wasn't a year, not really. See, he actually became Prime Minister and killed enough humans to put Earth into extinction mode, but then—we reversed time, basically, and… the year during which he did all that never actually happened. Then his wife shot him and he, well, died—he refused to regenerate. Even as the Doctor was begging him…" I trail off for a moment, lost in the memory. The Doctor, my Doctor, eyes brimming with tears, hair mussed and face flushed in a way that I'd never seen before, screaming, begging, _pleading… REGENERATE… _

"But he's here now," Mickey points out. "Right? That's him. So… he was reincarnated. But how?"

The fact that he takes all of this without asking for farther explanation reminds me how much I love him. I reach out to squeeze his hand gently. "I don't know. That was definitely him, though." I swallow. "Definitely."

"Well—we'll find a way out of this, we have to," he insists, half to himself. I nod along thoughtlessly, grateful that the stabbing effects of the sedative seem to be wearing off. He's right. We _have _to find a way out.

We have to find the Doctor.

"You don't have any weapons left on you, by any chance, do you?" I ask half-apprehensively, not daring to hope.

"Nothing," he replies bitterly, glaring at the spot where Moriarty and the Master disappeared. "I can't believe this, though. Why did they have to capture us?"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Isn't it obvious? They think that we'll get the Doctor's help otherwise. Which is true enough. Still…"

"Still," he agrees.

I let my eyes drift shut, breathing shallowly against the awful odor of our prison. I'm not used to having no plan. After all, I'm usually significantly more intelligent than those that I hunt, but Moriarty seems human, and the Master is a Time Lord, meaning that both of them are at least as smart as Mickey or me. It's hardly a reassuring thing to know, but I tell myself that there still has to be a way out of here.

Finally, taking a deep breath, I blink my eyes open again and stand up, trudging over to the sheet of plastic that seals our cell. Slowly, gently, I lay my hand against the cool barrier, pressing my forehead to it at the same time and glancing as far as I can in either direction. The untraceable light source must be situated directly above our cell, since I can't see more than a few feet around—everything is plunged into murky darkness. I may as well be blind for all the vision that I have. Hopelessly, I press hard against the plastic as though it might give way at my touch, but it remains firmly in place. Finally, in an act of frustration more than anything, I take in a breath, curl my fingers into a fist, pull it back and—

_Ouch. _

My knuckles and the nerves all along my arm spark and jolt, and I let out a small yelp, a flush darkening my face as I realize that I let my temper go for a moment. Clutching my aching forearm, I stumble back to where Mickey is still sitting and lean against the wall.

"Shatter-proof," I hiss out through gritted teeth.

"I can tell," he agrees, sounding more than a little concerned. "Martha, are you…?"

"I'm fine," I mutter, trying to ignore the upset boiling away in my stomach. "Just fine."

"Martha…" He stands up slowly, and I watch the movement of the muscles in his arms and legs, refusing to meet his eyes as he reaches out and gently takes my face in his hands.

"I'm scared," I whisper, my voice low and barely audible over the dripping. "Mickey, this man—the Master—I've seen so much… _so _much… and he's the worst of it all, I swear. _More than ten percent_ of the world dead because of him… I…"

"Shh," he murmurs, leaning in and gently pressing his lips to my forehead. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. _It's okay. You'll find a way out of this. You always do. _Mickey's scent flowing through my sinuses helps a little, and I find myself relaxing by tiny, minute degrees. "We're a team, remember?" he reminds me gently. "We've killed tons of aliens. This is just another alien. Just another alien."

"But he's not," I insist, despite the fact that I desperately want to be able to agree with him. "He's so much worse…"

"We'll make it," he promises simply. "We're survivors, both of us. You'll see."

The movement of his mouth on my skin is soothing, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding him as close as I can, my fingers massaging the back of his jacket as I press my face into his chest.

_Survivors. Both of us. You'll see. _

He's so sure of himself, and yet I can't bring myself to have really any hope at all. Things seem so dark, so dreary.

_Where's the Doctor when I need him?_

It comes to me then in a bolt of inspiration. I can't believe I didn't think of it before—how couldn't I have?—but of course, the Master wouldn't have seen it as a weapon…

I pull away from Mickey, ignoring his protest, and reach into my pocket, pulling out my cell phone.

"There won't be a signal here," he warns me, sounding confused, but I hold a hand up for silence, pressing one finger to the speed-dial _2. _Can it possibly work? There's no way it can, and yet… and yet…

_Ring…_

How _can't _it?

_Ring… ring… ring…_

Then there's the click of the other end being picked up, and his voice is in my ear for the first time in months, sounding confused and a bit harried. "Hello?"

Relieved warmth flows through my chest as I turn to grin at Mickey, and as the words I've imagined so often are finally formed.

"Doctor? It's Martha. And I'm bringing you back to Earth."


	2. Donna Noble

**A/N** _Here's chapter two! The POV here is Donna, and she and Ten come from the time right at the start of season 4, in the first few minutes of "The Fires of Pompeii." __  
_

**Thanks to** _Lucyndareads_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

Donna Noble

I hear they're getting closer; their howls are sending chills down my spine  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

I've seen lots of expressions on the Doctor, even in the short time I've known him—bemusement, shock, confusion, surprise, smugness, determination, gloating, humor, frustration, anger, even fury—but this is something completely new, and actually quite entertaining. He looked puzzled enough when the phone first started ringing, but now that it's to his ear… his eyes are even wider than usual, his mouth half-open, his hand paused partway through stroking his chin. It's comical—beyond comical—and I have to resist laughing out loud at the pure hilarity of it.

"Martha?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically high. There's a pause during which I only hear a static-filled mumble from the another line, and then he's nodding, lunging towards the TARDIS's console, flipping switches and pulling levers, still clutching the phone to his ear with one hand.

"Hey," I snap, scowling. "What're you doing? I thought you were taking me to—"

He waves a hand at me rather spastically to stop, and I huff impatiently, tapping my fingers against the console. It seems to take ages for him to put the phone down—he shoots a few questions, something about location, security, and I think that he mentions a 'master' of something or other, but by the time he hangs up, the time machine's landing noises are already grating through the air.

"What was that?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Martha," he offers by way of explanation. When my second eyebrow lifts to join the first, he gives me an odd look. "You know… Martha? I must've mentioned her at some point."

"Probably," I agree, "but why should I remember?"

"Martha Jones," he sighs. "She traveled with me before you. And it seems that she needs our help."

"Oh, whiney whine whine," I argue. "She's had her time, hasn't she? Someone needs to accept that you've moved on." It's a bit frustrating, I'll admit, that he has to freeze mid-trip for me just to go back for his precious Martha. What's so great about her, anyways? She obviously left him for some reason. What was that about? Stupid Martha. I already hate her, just for dragging me out of my first time travel experience.

"Donna, no. She really needs our help. She's, well… she's being held underground by a completely insane psychopath who also happens to be a renegade Time Lord."

"…Oh." Well. Still. "This is a _time machine, _though, isn't it? Why can't we go and get her afterwards?"

"How am I supposed to enjoy anything knowing that my friend is in danger?"

"But she _isn't, _not right now! She is, what, two thousand years in the future?"

"And yet it's still right now."

"Everyone's in danger _right now, _then, if that's how you're going to put it," I point out challengingly.

He hesitates for a moment, watching me silently, his eyes wide and sad like I haven't seen since the Racnoss incident. "Yes," he agrees finally, "I suppose they are."

That brings me up short. It makes me uneasy to see the Doctor—the confident, just-ever-so-slightly mad Doctor—actually caught up in his own emotions. He just seems like the type of person who wouldn't grow too concerned with his feelings, who'd endlessly value others' before his. But that is what this is about, in the end, isn't it? Concern for others.

Damn. Does he have to be so _selfless? _It makes me feel like utter _crap_, for one thing. If it was one of my mates in danger, I'd tell them to wait a minute while I explored a deal of space and time, and that I'd try to pick them up a hot Roman boyfriend or something while I was out. I mean, what difference would it make to them, after all?

But _no, _the Doctor is too heroic for that. He has to go and get Martha _now, _for reasons I can't quite fathom. Already, the TARDIS is settling down, and he's bolting for the door, grabbing his coat from its position flopped over one of the machine's supporty-thingies and pulling it on so that it billows behind him when he flings the door open. I hurry after, trying to express at least some measure of my still-present annoyance in my posture and facial expression. But, of course, the Doctor has that wonderful Doctory capability that allows him to be completely oblivious to the clearly agonizing struggle that I'm going through.

Eh, whatever.

"London?" I guess, stepping out and kicking the TARDIS's door shut behind me. A brisk wind whips my hair into my face, and I frown, trying to shove it away and ending up slightly cross-eyed. The familiar smoky scent of the city fills my nose, resulting in a small, almost dainty sneeze.

"Yeah," the Doctor murmurs, then sets off quickly down a seemingly random alleyway, tucking the TARDIS key thoughtlessly into his pocket. I have to half-jog to keep up with the stride of his unfairly long legs, my arms pumping slightly in a way that I'm sure looks absolutely idiotic. And, of course, it doesn't help when he suddenly decides to burst into a sprint.

"You could give me a break, you know!" I yell angrily, but just then he skids to a halt, and I quickly follow suit, breath catching in my throat. The Doctor ignores me. He crouches down, running his fingers repeatedly over a single square of the sidewalk. Then, before my very eyes, he actually bends over and touches it with the tip of his tongue.

"Oh, _god,_" I groan, raising a hand to cover my eyes. "You know, you could _try _not being disgusting. Just a suggestion."

The only reply I get is the faint buzzing of his fancy screwdriver, and then a massive scraping noise that causes me to whip my fingers away to get a decent view. What I'm greeted with is the sight of the sidewalk square dropping away into nothingness, and my eyes widen. "Well, isn't that snazzy," I observe, rather impressed by the mechanism. "Though I'm not sure what you had to lick it for," I make sure to put in—complementing the Doctor without _some _sort of cursory addition is utterly pointless.

"Yeah, it's not bad," he agrees, still on his hands and knees. He dips his head into the dark gap in the street, and I glance left and right, making sure that nobody's entering the alley. It would be a bit awkward for them to see me standing over him, with his head in the damned sidewalk. But after a moment, he resurfaces, this time standing up and brushing off his coat. "There's a ladder," he announces. "I think it's best that I go down first, can you be right after me?"

"Sure," I grumble. "I'll follow you into a dark and evil-looking pit. No problem. None at all."

"Excellent."

Have I mentioned that the Doctor doesn't understand the concept of sarcasm? As in… not _at all?_

Instants later, he's disappeared into the pit of darkness, and I'm left standing on the sidewalk. Feeling extremely self-conscious despite the fact that the street is deserted, I kneel down and gaze into the soupiness. "Doctor?"

"Right here. Come on down, it's not actually that far…"

"Damn you," I growl, dropping my feet uncertainly into the yawning gap. They wander for a few moments, then settle on what feels like a rope ladder. Steadily and carefully, I turn around, inching down until I'm only holding onto the cement by my fingertips. I first let one hand go, then the other, transferring them rapidly to the sides of the ladder, and shimmy down as fast as I can, not caring to keep my weight dependent on the fraying material for any longer than strictly necessary. It is indeed a pleasant surprise just how short of time it takes before my feet find the ground, and I let go gratefully, just in time for a massive, low screech to fill the chamber and for the square of light yards above my head to be covered up.

"What was that?" I ask a bit apprehensively.

"It closed up," the Doctor replies grimly. "I think they know that we're here."

"Oh, _brilliant,_" I groan. And then, "Hey! Wait up!" Because, of course, his footfalls are already speeding up and growing more and more distant. I pivot myself until I think I'm facing his general direction, then scamper after, my feet slipping on the ground, the cold and wet of which easily leaks through my thin sandals. I _did _dress for Rome, after all. It's not my fault that such light wear is completely inappropriate for this.

There's a sudden yelp from up ahead, along with a lower exclamation of surprise. Oh, damn. Here come the bad guys. "Doctor!" I yell, flailing internally for a plan. In an instant, I slip one of the sandals that had just been bothering me off of my foot, gripping it in my hand like a hammer, and half-limp forward, holding it threateningly in the air. "Alright, you!" I yell into the darkness. "You've picked the wrong girl to mess wi—"

"Um, Donna, you can… put that down."

A light suddenly illuminates the air in front of me, and I screw up my eyes against it, holding the sandal defensively in front of my face. "Oi, lay off!"

"I'm sorry," the Doctor is saying rapidly, "about her—"

"_Hey! _I thought that maybe that Master bloke and come and—"

"She's a bit quick to excite," he cuts across quickly. "Anyways, yes, I'm the Doctor and this is Donna Noble. Who might you be?"

I finally lower the sandal from my face in time to see the rather bemused-looking holder of the electric torch that had brightened everything. He's a rather short, stocky blond man with a worn face and momentarily confused eyes that gleam an odd sort of hazel-tinted blue.

"Er… John Watson," he mumbles, gaze flickering between the two of us. He's clearly taken aback by the Doctor's overly friendly manner, and perhaps—okay, fine—by my seemingly unprovoked attack, as well. "And… what… exactly are you doing here?"

"Oh, just some investigation, sort of a rescue mission—psychopath on the loose, former Prime Minister—Harold Saxon, you might remember him—well, he's a bit of an alien, has our friend captured, wants to enslave humanity and take over the majority of the universe… yeah, bit of a hurry," the Doctor ticks off rapidly. "Afraid there's no time to chat right now, but why don't we meet for a drink sometime? You certainly seem like a lovely person, crawling around underground armed with a torch and all that… what do you say?"

John Watson blinks rapidly several times, clearly unable to tell whether or not the Doctor is messing with him. Luckily for him, he's saved the probable pain of attempting to respond by the appearance of a taller, thinner, curlier-haired figure over his shoulder. "John?" the silhouette asks before stepping into the reach of the light. He's a good deal paler than his companion, with inky black hair, rather fantastic cheekbones, and slanted, glinting greenish grey eyes. "Who are these people?"

"I'm the Doctor, this is Donna. As I was just explaining to John here, we _are _in a bit of a rush, but say we meet afterwards? Two of you are even better than one, after all—"

"Doctor," I sigh, "remember Martha?"

"Right, yes, good. See you around?" the Doctor asks rather hopefully.

"Wait," the second man interrupts, his eyes raking each of us up and down. I feel oddly invaded, as though he's reading my mind somehow. "…Does the name 'Moriarty' mean anything to you?"

"…No, nothing," the Doctor confirms quickly, "but why don't we discuss it—"

"Then who are you after?"

"Sherlock…" John mutters, sounding rather strained.

"He's called the Master," I explain impatiently, glaring straight at the Sherlock person. "Formerly known as Prime Minister Harold Saxon, as he just explained to you. Now, would you care to scoot and let us keep going? Because our friend is being held captive by this man, and he's not afraid to kill, so you can imagine that we'd prefer to get there sooner rather than later."

"Donna, don't be rude," the Doctor chides, but there's a layer of impatience in his voice, as well.

"Well," John finally declares after a measured period of heated silence, "you'd best not go this way; it just leads back out."

A frown crosses the Doctor's face. "But then… no, that can't be right. _Unless…_" One of his hands drifts out, fingers splaying against the wall, which is shining with moisture, and the corners of his mouth curl up again. "Unless a little hunch I have is right, and—to abandon modesty—mine usually are."

He leans into the wall and disappears.

John gasps in surprise and Sherlock's eyebrows rise slightly, but I just snap at the emptiness. "Oh, no, you don't." Then I copy the Doctor's action and find myself stumbling awkwardly sideways, there being no resistance whatsoever when I touch the wall, as though it's not there at all. By the time I regain my balance, I seem to be in a different hallway altogether, this one unlit.

"What?"

"Hologram wall," the Doctor points out excitedly, like some schoolboy discovering the latest gadget. "And a very nice one, at that. Seems to completely block out light, and it certainly looked convincing. What is this, 2009, 2010? This technology is beyond Earth's at this point…" His voice loses its elated tone. "He's definitely here."

I don't need to ask to know that _he _is the Master—whoever the Master is in the first place, a fact that the Doctor doesn't seem too keen about cluing me in on. Well, that's only to be expected, really. I've grown used to it, whether that's good or bad. "Which way?" is all I ask.

"This one." I take a moment to pull my sandal on, then turn in the way of his voice, but haven't gone more than a step and a half before there's a series of rustles and thumps behind me, and I spin back around to see that John and Sherlock are back, the former's torch blinding me.

"Sorry," John squeaks, but then Sherlock is shoving in front of him, reaching his fingertips out to tickle them ever so lightly along the false wall. His greenish eyes are wide with a sort of uncontained, passionate intrigue. It's almost scary.

"Look at this, John," he breathes. "I've never seen anything like it…"

John catches me staring and grimaces sympathetically. _You get used to it, _he mouths, and I try to resist grinning. It's the sort of thing I'd say about the Doctor, and I wonder for a moment what exactly the relationship between these two men is, and why they're here in the first place. They mentioned a Moriarty, which didn't mean anything to me. It's a relatively common name, isn't it?

"Alright, Donna—and Sherlock and John, if you must—we are in a hurry," the Doctor reminds us from up ahead. I raise an eyebrow inquiringly at John.

"Coming?"

"Sherlock?" John asks tiredly, and the dark-haired man starts slightly, as though his name had caught him unawares.

"What? Oh, yes, of course we are." He hastily tucks his hand back into the pocket of the long black coat that he's wearing, clearing his throat slightly.

"Brilliant." I'm not sure whether I mean it or not, but John seems likable enough, if a bit long-suffering, and Sherlock is… interesting. Even if I'm uncertain about how much I welcome their joining us for the moment, I'm fairly sure that I don't have anything against it. So I whisk around and plod after the Doctor—it helps that now, with the light of John's torch, I can actually see him striding on up ahead. We amble along in what I like to imagine is companionable but I know is truly rather stiff silence for a few minutes before the Doctor turns a corner and I hear his previously steady steps come to an abrupt halt.

"Martha," he breathes. "And—_Mickey?_"

"Doctor," a male voice greets him, quickly joined by a woman's.

"It's about time."

I hurry over to round the corner, John and his light joining me just in time to illuminate a long row of what appear to be dingy prison cells, one of which has a dirty, rusty yellow light bulb hanging above it. Inside of this one is a young woman—presumably Martha—dark-skinned and –haired, along with a similarly colored and aged man. They're both large-eyed and soft-faced, good-looking and dressed in tight-fitting dark outfits. I might have thought them siblings if not for the fact that they're huddled in the corner, wound up in a very non-platonic way. Despite the tangle of their arms and legs, however, their faces are both free and turned to face the Doctor. I feel Sherlock join the three of us as Martha disengages herself from Mickey and gets to her feet, hurrying towards the thin, transparent sheet of hard, fiberglass-like material separating us.

"Can you get us out?" she demands immediately.

"Should be a simple matter of…" the Doctor trails off, aiming his screwdriver at the hinges of the thin, clear wall and activating it, so that its familiar buzzing hum fills my ears. Within seconds, the thing springs open like a doorway, crashing to the floor none-too-quietly—Sherlock's muttered "How?" is quickly hushed by John. Martha hurries out, Mickey behind her, and she hastens to give the Doctor a quick hug and a smile.

"I've missed you," she murmurs.

He beams back. "Oh, it's good to see you, Martha Jones. And Mickey! Mickey Mick Mickster! Hadn't you chosen to stay over in Cyberland? With Rose and Jackie?" His voice skates smoothly over Rose's name, which is a bit of a surprise to me. I'm used to him struggling with the topic of her.

"Cracks are opening up, Doctor," Mickey replies grimly. "I got through one by a bit of an accident, but Rose had been drifting in and out for a while… you haven't seen her, by any chance, have you?"

He shakes his head regretfully, eyes darkening for half an instant before clearing up again.

"_Alternate reality?_" Martha is asking incredulously, but she's interrupted by a short cough from John. The Doctor glances back at me and our two newest acquisitions, then blinks for a moment as though he'd forgotten we were there.

"Yes, sorry, I have to introduce you all, don't I? Mickey and Martha, this is Donna Noble, John Watson, and Sherlock…?"

"Holmes," Sherlock finishes, his voice cold and precise.

"Sherlock Holmes. Donna travels with me now, we sort of picked John and Sherlock up on the way. Donna, John, and Sherlock, this is Martha Jones and Mickey Smith, both previous companions of mine—though not at the same time. It's unexpected to see you two together."

"And the introductions are great," John interrupts, "but, well, you say that this Master figure is around here, and Sherlock and I have actually been tracking down a psychopath of our own—James Moriarty—who we believe to be nearby, so… I think we might want to get a move on… that made quite a bit of noise just now," he finishes quietly.

Everyone seems to stiffen, me included. Damn, he's right. If the Master—or Moriarty, whoever _he _is—is anywhere in this tunnel network, he's sure to be onto us now. I grit my teeth and look towards the Doctor for help, as does most everybody else. He glances between us for a moment, eyes wild, fingers clenching and unclenching.

"Well, I'd say that the best thing to do is…"

Just then, from seemingly nowhere, a bullet arches straight over his head and embeds itself in the wall at the back of Martha and Mickey's former cell.

"RUN!" he yells, and all five of us eagerly oblige as he whips around and charges out the direction that we came. It doesn't take too long for me to be completely out of breath.

"Are we… going… the right… way?" I choke out.

"No idea!" the Doctor calls back, his voice surprisingly animated. A hard laugh comes from next to me, and I glance over to see Martha, who's jogging along at a much steadier pace than me. She does seem pretty fit, I note in some useless corner of my brain.

She notices me watching her and half-smiles. "Forgot just how much running is involved when the Doctor is around," she offers by way of explanation.

I smirk back knowledgeably. That is indeed something that I can sympathize with. I'd already regretted cutting Phy Ed back in school a couple of times—though, I suppose, the scenario of being chased by an alien psychopath in an underground maze accompanied by a 900-year-old time traveler had never crossed my mind back then.

"Here!" the Doctor suddenly cries, and I skid to a halt, looking up from Martha to see that he's standing in front of a massive metal door, chest heaving. It looks like it leads to some sort of vault—definitely not an exit, anyhow—but he doesn't hesitate before flicking on his screwdriver and blasting the heavy padlock that dangles from the side. The door bursts open, and all of us hustle in, the Doctor last, right after John. He shoulders the heavy metal port shut again, yelling "kill the light!" as he presses the head of the screwdriver to it, presumably sealing the lock on the other side. John obliges, and we're plunged into darkness, all of our heavy breathing whooshing around what feels like a pretty large space. I close my eyes for a moment, tension gripping my muscles. Seconds fly by as quickly as the beat of my heart, and, slowly, I allow myself to relax by tiny degrees.

"Well." The Doctor's voice. "That was close… is everyone alright?"

I nod, then realize that he can't see me and open my mouth to confirm that I'm fine. However, whatever I might have been about to say is interrupted by a low, long growl that snakes through the air, seeming to lower the temperature of the air by several degrees.

All the noise of breathing around me immediately ceases, and all of us are tense, wondering if we imagined the sound. But it comes again a few moments later, just a bit higher this time, like a whine.

_Oh god…_

"John," Martha murmurs, "…why don't you give us some light again?"

The blond man's wide-eyed face is illuminated as he silently flicks the torch back on, then tilts it in the direction that the noise came from. I turn my head slowly, and can't hold back the disgusted cry that comes from my lips.

We're standing on a platform, only a few square yards, that hangs over a huge pit that seems to be hundreds of feet deep—it's miraculous that none of us have fallen off. It expands in all directions, a huge, empty, dark cave. And yet it's far from a cave. The walls are made of sleek metal—or should I say the dividers? Because there are no walls. Everything is that same sort of fiberglass-type stuff from Martha and Mickey's cell, because this place is a _zoo. _John's torch only manages to brighten the nearest of the little prisons, but every one of them contains an alien. And they're _terrifying _aliens. Some of them animal-like, some humanoid, some vague blobs, some even apparently gaseous… there are claws, fangs, spikes, huge staring eyes and acidic body fluids leaking from gashes on their sides where they seem to have been whipped or stabbed… it's an image straight out of some child's nightmare, and I can't bear to look for more than half a second. "Turn it off!" I yelp, and John is all too eager to oblige. But the brief light seems to have been enough to rouse the menagerie of monsters, because instead of the single growl, there are now a thousand horrible animal noises winding through the air, hisses and roars and wails and eerie screeches.

"Oh my god," Martha breathes.

There's a short, completely humorless laugh that sounds like it might be John's. "No way," he says simply, sounding as though someone played a ridiculous joke on him. "No. _No. _There's… this can't be… it's a television screen or something. It's fake. It's _got _to be fake." But we all know that our predicament is far from fake.

"What are they?" Sherlock asks of the darkness, sounding absolutely captivated. "Genetic experiments? Mutations?"

"They're aliens," Mickey offers by way of explanation.

"Aliens, really? Fascinating… but that can't be…"

"Why not?" the Doctor questions, sounding more than a little offended.

"Human technology isn't progressed enough to retrieve creatures from other worlds, not yet. And these are clearly rather unintelligent, so they couldn't have gotten here themselves if they really are from other—"

"Who says they aren't intelligent?"

"Hey," I interrupt, unable to bear it any longer, "this is all fine and good, but would you lot mind saving it? Because I'm just about ready to run away screaming, personally."

"Oh, right." The Doctor opens the door again, and we all pour out swiftly. My heart seems to have situated itself in my throat, and it strikes me that if I try to open my mouth again, I just might end up vomiting all over the place. I look back in time to see John practically dragging Sherlock from the alien room, then the Doctor seals up behind us again, and we're darting down a hallway at a faster rate than ever, following him blindly. Corners are being turned, my feet are slipping, air is burning in my throat and lungs, and, the next thing I know, we're through the hologram wall and at the ladder again. "Up, quick!" the Doctor yells, going up first and buzzing open the false sidewalk square. We oblige, one at a time, until we're all in the still-abandoned alleyway, everyone displaying various degrees of shock.

"What _was _that?" Martha asks, sounding half-awed, half-horrified. "How could the Master get all of them? Even if he'd started back in the Saxon days, it wouldn't have been long enough… that place was _massive!_"

"He must have someone working for him here," the Doctor mutters. "I can't imagine who, though—that, that was an _army, _bred solely for destruction. Looks like he's given up enslaving humans and just wants to kill them… it's only a matter of time until he releases them… and that's when it begins." He runs a hand through his hair. "But… what human would help him with that? Nobody's _that _crazy, nobody would willingly destroy _everything… _this means the end of the _world._"

I think I see a questioning, worried glance pass from John to Sherlock, but before I can consider what it means, Martha is talking again.

"But we saw the end of the world—well, the end of the universe—and humans were there, you said they always endure! So they can't all be killed now, can they?"

"Time can be rewritten," he reminds her solemnly. "This might be it, if we can't find out what's wrong and stop him—quick."

"There was someone," Mickey begins slowly, "someone with the—the Master… he was wearing a suit, had short dark hair, really big, blackish eyes—"

"That's him," John says.

We all turn to him questioningly.

"Moriarty, Jim Moriarty," he explains, and there's fear in his eyes, real, genuine fear. "The one that Sherlock and I have been tracking. You're describing him. Moriarty's allied with the Master."

Even if I don't know who this Moriarty character is, I won't deny that his words chill me to the core. Something's going on, something big, and something very, very bad.

"Jim Moriarty," the Doctor echoes. "Doesn't ring any bells. What do you know about him?"

"Not much," John admits, clearly uncomfortable with being the center of attention. "But, well, he's been… after us for a while, and he's definitely capable of those things you said."

"So we have to find out more about him. Easy. Everything about people is released on the internet these days—"

"Not about him," John corrects. "I doubt even the government has proper files on him—well, actually, I know him personally, and he doesn't."

"He?" I ask in confusion.

"Er, the government. Long story…"

"And not one we have time for," Mickey cuts in, his eyes dark. "What you're saying is that there's someone we need information on, information that even the government itself doesn't have. Well—there's somewhere else we can go. Somewhere outside the government. Beyond the police. If there's anyone who knows who he is, it'll be them."

"Who?" John asks, but the Doctor is already shaking his head.

"No. No, no, no. Definitely not. Definitely and absolutely not."

"Doctor, it's our only chance!" Mickey insists.

"_Who_?" John repeats, looking nervous.

Martha speaks up, her mouth set, her eyes flashing.

"Torchwood."


	3. Mickey Smith

**A/N** _And now for a chapter in Mickey's POV. This is where it starts to get truly confusing, seeing as several new characters come in, but I try to keep it as clear as possible. Any feedback is greatly appreciated!__  
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**Thanks to** _Basia Orci__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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**CHAPTER THREE**

Mickey Smith

Our time is running out now, they're coming down the hills from behind  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"We have to," I declare. "It's the only way to find out what we need to know. We don't need to stay with them for long, we don't have to go on any missions with them… you won't even have to _look _at a gun. But we've got to do this, and we need the TARDIS if we're going to get to Cardiff in a reasonable amount of time."

"Torchwood and I… don't get along well," he protests. He looks more than a little worked up, his eyes even wider than usual and his knuckles white on the hand gripping his sonic screwdriver.

"Doctor, Mickey's right," Martha points out gently. "It's worth spending a little bit of time with people you may not like all that much if it means saving the human race, right?" Her words, spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone, are almost funny, but I'm far from laughter.

"…Fine," he half-spits out at last. "But I'm going to be in a bad mood now, and that means that the rest of you had better clear off. I saved you, now shoo. Donna, come on."

"Wait," Martha interrupts, taking hold of his shoulder as he makes to stride away. "If you let Mickey and me come with, we can be the ones to talk to Jack. You can just sit there looking moody, if you want to," she adds with a small grin. "Besides, if not for us, you wouldn't be here in the first place."

"Yeah," Donna mutters, "we'd be in _Rome._"

We all manage to ignore her, and the Doctor growls in frustration. "_Fine,_" he finally complies, "but Sherlock and John—"

"Oh, we're coming." Sherlock looks slightly surprised, as though he can't imagine that things would be any other way. "You never know… leave us here, and we just might end up going to the police. They could take care of the Master and Moriarty, easy."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," the Doctor protests. "You can't do that. This is… beyond that. The police won't mean anything to the Master."

"Well, then." Sherlock smiles tightly, an expression that's more of a cat's smirk than anything else. "I suppose you'll just have to take us along. You do owe us quite a few explanations, by the way. And it'd be best you give them soon, as John probably can't bear the tension much longer."

John shoots a glare at him, but he seems impervious. The Doctor throws up his hands. "Fine. _Fine. _Let's all throw a party, why don't we? Come on, then, she's parked nearby."

As he stalks off, John mutters "The police?" to Sherlock under his breath.

"No, I wouldn't have," is the clipped reply, and then the man in the long black trench coat is first in line after the Doctor, John hustling behind him. Sherlock is intriguing. He seems… different from other people somehow, and as fascinated as I am, I can't imagine that I'd want to spend too much time around him.

"Mickey!" Martha calls to me. "Hurry, we haven't got that much time!"

I glance up to see that the rest of them are already several meters away, and hasten after. By the time I catch up, the Doctor is already swinging open the door of the TARDIS, and Donna is tromping in after him, Sherlock and John not far behind. Next is Martha, and then me, closing the door behind me just in time to hear John's exclamation of "it's bigger on the inside!"

"That it is." The Doctor is already at the console, flipping and turning various switches and knobs in preparation for flight, ignoring Sherlock and John as they gaze around in wonder. "Cardiff… might as well charge up the TARDIS with rift energy while we're there, it can't hurt."

"TARDIS," Sherlock repeats, carefully running his hand over one of its support beams. "An acronym, I presume?"

The Doctor freezes and scowls over his shoulder at the dark-haired man, who's facing the other direction, apparently too important to look at people while he talks to them. "Yes… how'd you know?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"How is it _obvious_?" Donna queries, wrinkling her nose.

"Just… don't mind him," John says quickly. "He likes acting like he's better than other people and all that."

"Not necessarily _better_," Sherlock chides, "just more intelligent."

"That too," John mutters.

I'm not sure how to react to this, but am spared having to do so by the sudden groaning lurch of the TARDIS. Both of the men's eyes widen, and John's mouth actually opens slightly as the massive tubes begin to work up and down, propelling the machine through space. Moments later, they grind to a halt, and the Doctor plods over to the door. He hesitates for a moment before flinging it open. "Go on, then, no use hanging around. If we have to do this, might as well make it quick."

We all file after him, me at the back, making sure that Sherlock and John aren't too shocked to keep moving. It seems that the Doctor has taken the liberties to park the TARDIS right in the center of the Hub—as usual, the sight of the towering underground base renders me momentarily speechless. Jack is already running over, and I can see the coffee boy, Ianto, glancing curiously at us from the other side of the room, where he seems to be bent over the Japanese woman's computer. She's there, too—what was her name again? For the hell of me, I can't actually remember.

"Doctor?" Jack asks, as though he can't believe what's in front of him. The Doctor gives a small, short nod, and the Captain's face breaks into a grin as he shifts his weight onto one leg. "Well, can't say I was expecting you to come. What's the sudden visit about? Not that I mind, of course. But this is quite some company—Martha, Mickey, great to see you guys." I nod in response, but he's already glancing around again, and his gaze happens to settle on Sherlock, growing rather wide. "Well. Hel-_lo _there."

The Doctor's muttered "_Don't_" is stifled by the palpable silence that pours into the space between us and Jack, and John visibly stiffens, while Sherlock seems oblivious, his eyes roving over the advanced technology filling the wide, tall room.

"Yes, well, this is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," the Doctor finally introduces them stiffly, tucking his hands into the pocket of his long brown coat. "And Donna Noble. Sherlock, John, and Donna, Jack Harkness."

"_Captain _Jack Harkness," Jack corrects with a dazzling smile, still fixated on Sherlock, who doesn't do any more than shoot him a half-second scowl. Of course, I'm not sure whether or not it qualifies as an actual scowl, seeing as it seems to be his permanent expression—except for when he's talking to John.

Jack raises his eyebrows and finally returns his attention to the Doctor, who's looking more and more surly by the moment. "Well, what can I help you with, Doc?"

"It's probably best discussed in private," he warns.

"Fair enough. But there's something you might want to see first, as a matter of fact."

The Doctor looks confused. "Which is…?"

Jack couldn't have looked happier as he pivots around. "Ianto! Bring in the guest, why don't you? Toshiko, if you could just keep working on that translation," he adds when the woman looks up. Ianto nods curtly and steps away, heading through a door to another room. _Toshiko, _that was her name. Tosh. "I'd introduce you to the rest of the team," Jack goes on, "but Toshiko's a bit busy, and Owen and Gwen are actually both out sick today. You caught us at a lonely time—which is probably best, considering your… entourage."

The Doctor appears to ignore most of this speech, and with good reason—I'm wondering about who Ianto's going to get, myself. A moment later, my curiosity is sated as he returns, a young blonde woman trailing after him.

My mind goes completely blank for a moment, and everything vanishes—the Hub, Martha, Jack, Sherlock and John—so that all I can see, all I can think of, is her. Her chocolate-colored eyes, framed with long, thick lashes, her full lips pulled back to reveal her white teeth in a massive smile, a massive smile that—that's not directed at me… she only has eyes for the Doctor.

_Which is to be expected, _I tell myself angrily, looking away from Rose, directing my attention towards the ground. She's seen me fairly recently, after all. She doesn't know just how much I've missed her in these past few months, how the gnawing ache tormented me until it faded away into a constant, a repetitive stabbing in my chest, never lifting… I feel Martha's eyes on me, and a twinge of guilt runs up my breastbone, but I ignore it. I can hear wordless exclamations of delight and surprise, Jack's laugh, and glance up just in time to see her leap into the Doctor's arms, for him to twirl her around in unrestrained joy. Both of their faces are absolutely illuminated, and I honestly can't say that I've ever seen either of them happier. He pulls her close, and I stiffen, expecting what must be inevitable—after all, I remember as well as anyone her last words to him in Bad Wolf Bay—but it's only an embrace, her face in his shoulder, his hand wound up in her hair.

"How?" he asks simply when the huge beam on his face lessens enough for him to get a word out.

"Cracks are spreading again," she explains, her eyes shining. "I managed to get through one right here, and Jack was on the sidewalk just when I slipped through—he hasn't let me out of his sight since." Her laughter—God, how I've missed it—bubbles up, and he shakes his head wordlessly, hugging her yet tighter.

There's a slight stirring from beside me, and I hear a soft Welsh voice—Ianto's—muttering something that I wouldn't have been able to catch if I wasn't trying so hard not to focus on the Doctor and Rose.

"They look happy," he murmurs.

It's such an odd comment that I can't help turning my head slightly, only in time to see Jack, not meeting the other's eyes, his arms crossed tightly, hands gripping his elbows. I don't have any time to try and dissect the strange interaction, though, because the Doctor and Rose are breaking apart, and now she's coming over to me, still grinning.

"Mickey! It's been so long!"

A slightly shifty smile works its way onto my face, and I give her a quick hug, pulling away much sooner than I want to, because otherwise the agony might absolutely take over. I can't have her. I'll never be able to have her.

But I _do _have Martha, and I try to distract myself with this fact, reaching out to lay my hand on her shoulder. "Rose, you've never met Martha, I suppose."

She shakes her head, biting at the edge of her lip. "Nope."

"Well, this is Martha Jones, my… girlfriend." I force the word out, knowing that it's not optional, that I have to make my position clear. "She used to travel with the Doctor, too. And Martha, this is Rose… I've told you about her."

Rose's eyebrows inch up, and her next words are uncharacteristically icy, though hopefully Martha can't tell. "Oh, I see. Hello." She gives a small nod but doesn't bother to offer her hand.

"Hi," Martha greets her, sounding a good deal less impolite.

"Alright, introductions, introductions. Everyone can get to know each other later," Jack announces. "At the moment, Doctor, we clearly have important matters to discuss. Why're you here?"

It's reluctantly that the Doctor looks away from Rose to face Jack again. The next words seem to drop out of his mouth, weighting the air down. "The Master is back."

Jack freezes, then slowly shakes his head. "No. No, there's no way. He _died. _He—he died, he refused to regenerate, I _saw _him…"

"Apparently, he managed to get himself reincarnated. He has a whole _army _of aliens hidden underground, and he has human backup, too—someone by the name of James Moriarty. That's what we came here for—we thought that if anyone knew a thing about Moriarty, it would be you lot." His focus wanders back to Rose, but he manages to hold himself back from walking over to her. Of course, a moment later, she closes the distance herself and latches onto his arm, resting her head on his shoulder. His face changes subtly at her touch, as though brushed by a ray of warm sunlight, and I have to resist wincing at the sight.

"Tosh?" Jack calls.

"Already on it," she replies, fingers tapping away at her keyboard. "D'you have a middle name?"

"Nothing," the Doctor says regretfully. "Unless…?" he turns to Sherlock and John, eyebrows raised hopefully, but they both shake their heads—that is, John shakes his head and Sherlock doesn't even meet the Doctor's eyes; he's still busy taking in the Hub, and Rose's appearance, apparently, couldn't have made less of a difference to him. "Nope, nothing."

"Looks?" Tosh inquires.

John speaks up this time, his voice sounding just a tiny bit cracked, probably under the pressure of everything that has happened to him in the last hour or so. "A few inches under six foot, pale, average height, short dark hair, big black eyes… speaks in an Irish accent, but I can't say if it's real or not."

"How do you know this Moriarty, anyways?" Jack asks as Tosh types away. "Sounds like a pretty shifty character."

"He's, well…" John shrugs. "Sort of… Sherlock here is a… private detective of a type…"

"Consulting detective," Sherlock interrupts coldly. It's the first time he's spoken since entering the Hub, and I'm surprised by how even his voice is, especially in contrast to John's.

"Yeah, that. He gets involved in big things—homicide, you know—and I'm his… assistant, sort of… but the point is that a lot of the cases we've been getting have ended up being traced back to Moriarty. He has control of an alarming amount of underground crime rings and supposedly self-employed assassins, and just… it seems like he makes up more than half of the crime world sometimes. We've only met him once, at a pool—long story—but, well… yeah. He's pretty much an evil mastermind."

"An evil mastermind," Jack echoes, sarcasm leaking through his American accent. "Brilliant. Sounds more than a little like the Master, incidentally."

"He's… different from the Master," Martha speaks up suddenly. I look over at her, surprised. She'd been so silent up till now, I'd practically forgotten she was there.

"How so?"

"Just… he's… colder, somehow. It's like… he's _human, _but that somehow makes him even more evil." She shrugs, dislodging my hand from her shoulder, and I try not to think about how that might have been an intentional move. "But the Master definitely acts like his superior. I think he knows that he's not human."

"Moriarty, getting involved with aliens," Sherlock grumbles, rolling his eyes. "Of course."

"Like you're doing any better," Donna points out, an odd hint of smugness in her voice.

He frowns. "What?"

The Doctor shifts, wincing. "Yeah, well, see—"

"I've found him!" Tosh exclaims. "James Moriarty, age thirty-five, location unknown… is this right?" She tilts the computer screen to face us, and I instantly recognize the man who had been outside Martha's and my cell, the one with the Master.

"Yes," John and I chorus, just as Martha growls "Definitely" and Sherlock lets out a wordless hiss.

"What does it say about him?" Jack prompts.

"He's got a whole life story—brilliant in school, apparently, almost genius-level… won a good deal of awards… apparently unemployed now, though…" She frowns, eyes flickering swiftly over the lines of text on the screen before her. "It's odd, the edges of this—don't quite fit somehow… there doesn't seem to be anything about him now, no home, no relatives, no contact information…" Her computer mouse clicks away. "He has a life right up to age eighteen, and then it just sort of… stops. Like he's died or something. But that picture is definitely him, and his age is updated…"

"Well, he's certainly not dead," I point out grimly. "Martha and I saw him just a few minutes before the Doctor came, and he looks perfectly healthy." Then I frown. "But… if you don't have any information on him, where did that photograph come from?"

"…No idea," Tosh realizes confusedly. "I… I suppose… the files are updated regularly, it's really rare that I'll do a manual entry anymore, but…" _Click… _"…No source cited." She sits back, baffled. "It's… like a ghost came in and just… edited bits." She waves a hand in the air. "I don't understand."

"Well, let's hope it's not a ghost," Jack mutters, "we definitely don't need any more of _those._ Try running a scan with the picture, see if he has any other identities."

Tosh nods and resumes her work quickly. We wait in anxious silence this time, watching her face, which, to my relief, lights up. "Thanks, Jack—yes, there are loads. It looks like he must change them at least once a month. Here's one…"en she pauses, and her features darken. "…They… all just vanished."

"What?" Jack demanded, running to her side and staring at the screen, which even I can see is blank.

"They just disappeared! I was about to click on one—the name was Richard Brook—and it just… they all went away."

"Zero results retrieved," Jack reads out from the screen. "Someone's in our files. We've been hacked."

"No." Tosh shakes her head quickly, silky hair rippling. "That's impossible. The security on this—there's no way. No one could tamper with those files unless they're a member of Torchwood, and I certainly didn't."

"Neither did I. Nor Ianto, right?"

"Right, sir," the Welshman agrees, and I wonder if I'm the only one to catch the faint iciness in his voice. It looks like Jack does, too, judging by the slight stiffening of his muscles.

"Well, then," he plows on, "I'll assume that Gwen and Owen are equally innocent. Face it, Toshiko, someone's broken in from outside."

"But… _how?_" she asks in blatant disbelief. "It doesn't make sense. They'd have to be a genius—no, far more than a genius, and with technology advanced even beyond ours—which isn't one hundred percent human… it isn't even fifty percent human…"

"A genius and an alien," Martha agrees. "Sounds just like our favorite little duo."

Jack walks swiftly over to her, until they're nose to nose and I can't help feeling a bit protective. "Martha," Jack says, "If what you're saying is true, that means that the very world could be in grave danger."

"And that's exactly what I'm trying to tell you," she replies calmly. "The two of them together could very well spell destruction for this planet. And _that _is why we came for your help. Because we need you, Jack." The space between them is electric, and I'm sure that Ianto is just as uncomfortable as I am, but luckily, John's voice shatters it.

"Alright—planet, aliens… I think that Sherlock and I deserve a proper explanation now," he speaks up. "There's clearly more going on here than either of us know," he continues, ignoring Sherlock's muffled scoff, "and it's time you told us."

The Doctor shrugs. "True enough, I suppose. Well, what is there to say? The Master and I are both aliens—time traveling aliens—Donna, Martha, Mickey, Jack, and Rose have all traveled with me in the past, in the TARDIS. That's my time machine. And this, Torchwood, is a…" He scowls. "…An alien-hunting society. They track down and kill creatures like those ones we saw underground. The Master is completely insane and willing to destroy the human race and planet Earth in a heartbeat. Any questions?"

John blinks, twice, then shakes his head mutely.

"Excellent, we don't have time for them anyways. So, let's try and clear this up as soon as we can. Are you two staying or leaving?"

Sherlock snorts. "Leaving? Why would we leave? Aliens, threat to the world, Moriarty allied with his equal—nothing would make me miss this."

"Brilliant," John mutters. When the Doctor's inquisitive glance shifts to him, he just sighs and crosses his arms. "Where he goes, I go."

"Fair enough. Well, then, do we—"

"Jack." Ianto's voice, low and firm, twists foreboding into my stomach for reasons I can't quite discern. I look over to where I thought he was to find that he's vanished, and it takes me a moment to locate him leaning over Tosh's shoulder, his profile glowing against the white light of the computer screen. The single blue eye that I can see is wide with an emotion suspiciously like fear. The woman sitting in front of him appears frozen, her mouth slightly open and her eyes unfocused.

"Ianto?"

"Come… come look at this."

Jack hurries over, takes one look at the computer screen, and straightens up, losing the last traces of his casual air. "Great. Everyone, to the TARDIS. We need to get out, and fast."

"Hey—" the Doctor begins in protest.

"Doctor," Jack growls, "Toshiko just received a note on the Hub's _top-security_ instant messaging system, and it's from an anonymous user—of which there are none."

"What does it say?"

"… 'Boom.'"

The single syllable causes both Sherlock and John to snap to attention, and I decide that it must have something to do with Moriarty. This is being catalogued in an insignificant section of my mind, though, because I'm completely focused on turning at the same time as the Doctor, to face the TARDIS—

The Master is standing outside of it, arms crossed, smirking.

The Doctor lunges forward, breaking free of Rose's grip, and the exact same time that both Jack and Ianto whip out hidden guns and direct them towards the hooded man.

"Oh, no, you don't," the Master teases just as Jack lets a bullet loose. It ricochets off what must be some invisible force field, and I pull Martha down just in time for it to sail over our heads. Looking up from my crouch, I see that Rose is having to hold the Doctor back, and that he's straining against her, trying to reach the Master, who's laughing cruelly.

"Oh, Doctor, Doctor, Doctor. How… _rude _of you."

"How did you get in?" Jack demands, still aiming his gun steadily.

"Oh, look, it's handsome Jack again," the Master sneers. "I really was hoping I'd seen the last of you… perception filter, you idiot." He tugs at a cord around his neck. "You know them all too well, now, don't you? After the whole incident last year. The business leading up to poor Mr. Winters' assassination… ah, well, that's not the concern at the moment. The _concern _is that you have…" He checks an imaginary watch. "Exactly one minute before your little Hub is nothing but a pile of ashes. I'd rather not be here for that part. Well—byebye! Or shall I say…" His eyes meet the Doctor's, and a particularly wicked grin curls his lips. "_Allons-y_?"

The Doctor makes one more, useless effort to reach him, growling with frustration like a restrained dog, but none of us can stop the Master from slipping into the TARDIS, and in moments, it's faded away, after-whooshes still echoing through the Hub.

Jack's already moving, gripping Tosh and Ianto's arms, pulling them over to the lift in the center of the room. "There's only enough time for one load here. The Doctor can regenerate, I can't die—I need you two to go," he insists. Tosh quickly gets on it, but Ianto is staying firmly rooted in place, shaking his head. "Ianto—"

"I'm not leaving you, Jack. I'm not leaving you."

The two men lock eyes for a moment, Jack's chest heaving, and then, slowly, his grip on Ianto's shoulder loosens. The lift is rising with only Tosh on it, and it's too late for anyone else to join her on it. I feel a quick pang of guilt that Sherlock and John have been dragged into this, that they're going to die along with the rest of us when they were never even involved… Martha's eyes meet mine, and I stare at her, just stare, trying to communicate all the things that I've never said in our short relationship, everything that was going to happen that never will now… any moment now, we're all going to be vaporized… I actually do get the peculiar sensation that my life is flashing before my eyes, and I can hear it, too—hear Rose's laugh, hear the Doctor's shout, hear the TARDIS's landing noises…

_Those aren't in my head. _

Martha and I whirl around at the exact same time, just in time for a blue police public call box to materialize feet in front of us. And yet—it looks slightly different than the TARDIS I know, a bit darker blue—

The door swings open, and a man with medium-length dark hair and a bowtie sticks his head out. "Hurry up, then, you've only got twenty seconds!"

I don't think, just run, pulling Martha into the TARDIS after me, only hoping that everyone else will make it as well. The console bay is unfamiliar, bigger, with a glass floor, and I cling to her hand like a lifeline in this strange new world. Is this another Time Lord? But I thought that the Doctor was the last… then again, if the Master is alive, there might as well be another one. But who would this be? The Janitor?

There's a curly blonde-haired woman at the console already, turning various knobs, and she looks up in the direction to the door after a few minutes. "Doctor, is that everyone?" I follow her eyes and find the bowtie-wearing man, who, I now notice, is also wearing a tweed jacket and suspenders. He shoots her a thumbs-up, and the grating noises that I've learned to associate with the TARDIS taking off fill the air. They seem oddly halting, but it doesn't matter. I laugh with pure euphoria, turning around to grin at Martha, who beams back. Looking around, I can see that we're all here—the Doctor, Donna, Rose, Sherlock, John, even Jack and Ianto seem to have made it. There's someone else, though, too—two others, in fact, both fairly young, a blond man with a rather large nose and a pretty redheaded girl in alarmingly skimpy clothing.

After everyone adjusts to the fact that we're alive, we manage to process that we're in some odd TARDIS, with a bowtie-wearing man who seems to be another Time Lord—the blonde woman called him the Doctor. Why would they have the same name?

The Doctor—the one I know—trots right up to the bowtie-wearing man and stares at him in disbelief.

"No," he whispers.

The bowtie-wearer beams and laughs, a deep, drawn-out _ha ha haaa _that the corners of my mouth seem to involuntarily tilt upwards at the sound of. "Oh, yes," he agrees delightedly. "Brilliant, right?"

"But… it'll damage things," the Doctor insists in disbelief. "I mean… cracks…"

"Yeah, cracks are my right-hand man at this point. Man? Men? Men, probably. Are cracks male?" When the Doctor just stares blankly, he sighs. "Oh, Mr. Humorless. Was I really that boring? Oh, well. Best give everyone some early introductions—Ponds, River, come over here," he calls. I watch as the three strangers navigate over to him. He wraps an arm around the redhead's shoulder, then does the same to the man. "May I introduce Amy and Rory Pond?"

"Rory and Amy Williams," the man, Rory, mumbles, looking down, but none of us pay him all that much attention.

Amy grins a bit nervously at all of us, then raises a hand and gives it a wave that's coupled with a small "hi."

"And this here is the wonderful River Song." He nods in the direction of the older woman, who smiles, mouth closed. There's something about her, something cold and feline, that puts me on edge. Maybe it's the closed-off look of her golden green eyes or the heavy-looking gun tucked into her belt. The latter especially seems to be a legitimate enough cause.

"River, Amy, Rory," the dark-haired man goes on, "now, here are a lot of names I have to say. Let's see if I can get them out in one breath. Ready?"

Amy rolls her eyes and Rory looks vaguely uncomfortable. I'm speechless.

"Okay, here goes." He pulls his arm down from Rory's shoulder and points to each person in turn as he names them. "Rose Tyler, Martha Jones, Mickey Smith"—I flinch in confusion, wondering how he could possibly know me—"Donna Noble, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, _Captain _Jack Harkness, and Ianto Jones. Oh, and that guy—" He jabs a thumb in the still confused-looking Doctor's direction—"but he's not important."

"…Wait," Rose stammers. "But… what? Who are _you_?"

The biggest grin yet splits the bowtie man's face, and he takes a few steps forward, so that he's right up next to her.

"Rose Tyler," he says simply. "It has been a while."

"What do you mean? Who—?"

"I," he announces proudly, "am the Doctor."


	4. Jack Harkness

**A/N** _There's a bit of shippy stuff in this one! Inevitable, I suppose, considering that it's from Jack's pov xP Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews!__  
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**Thanks to** _Guest, Rachel, A-Little-Help-From-My-Friends, and Silvermoon of Forestclan__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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**CHAPTER FOUR**

Jack Harkness

When we start killing, it's all coming down right now  
From the nightmare we've created, I want to be awakened somehow  
(I want to be awakened right now)  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

Two Doctors. _Two Doctors, _and both of them very pretty ones at that. I have to admit, I've been through a lot of weird stuff, but this is one thing that I never saw coming. My eyes dance back and forth between the two of them—the one I know, still in his long brown overcoat, with his tie and his spiky brown hair, eyes wide with confusion; and the newcomer, complete with jacket, suspenders, and bowtie. He seems a bit quirkier—if that's possible, seeing as my Doctor is certainly more than a little odd.

I like this.

Quite a bit.

But, of course, I put the fantasies slinking around the corners of my mind out of my thoughts for Ianto's sake. He's gone through enough already lately, and I can tell that the appearance of the Doctor isn't especially pleasing for him. He's been… clingy lately. Well, not clingy, exactly, but… nervous, I suppose, like he doesn't want to lose me. Doesn't seem to understand that there's no chance of that happening. I've made my choice. The Doctor, much as I may adore him, is the equivalent of off-limits, though I'm sure there would be some way for me to end up with him if I really stretched my efforts. It's not that he's not worth it, just that I'm not willing to sacrifice Ianto's meager happiness for that. Not to mention Gwen, Owen, and Tosh. During the whole incident with the Master, they were absolutely lost, if I may so flatter myself—or so it seemed when I returned.

Now the Master's back, and so is this Moriarty, and though I still haven't figured out just who he is, I can tell that he's not good news.

The worries beginning to cloud my mind are cut off by the sudden lurch of the TARDIS, and I find myself stumbling sideways, lunging out at the person nearest me, who just happens to be the oh-so-wonderful Sherlock Holmes. My hands, which had initially shot out seeking something to hand onto, end up clinging to his dark trench coat a bit longer than is strictly necessary, and Sherlock, who has managed to stay steadily on his feet, glares at me. I give him a half-apologetic, half-suggestive smile and let go, looking away when I hear both of the Doctors give frustrated shouts.

"He's fused us!" the newer one complains, whacking a hand against the console. A groaning noise comes from the TARDIS in response, and he scowls. "Must have not left after all—but of course, there was that force field! He would have been completely protected from the explosion, he probably just came back to watch the show and switched on invisibility… now, _that _is not fair."

"That bastard," River breathes.

"What are you saying?" Donna asks. "We're not all Time Lords here! Go on, then, 'fused'—what does that mean?"

I instinctively look over at Martha, only to find that she's already gazing worriedly at me. Both of us recognize the phrase, but the coat-wearing Doctor's explanation still leaves me feeling sick with worry. "He must have been there the whole time, gotten the TARDIS to create a new screwdriver for him—damn him, always being able to manipulate her controls—but he locked the coordinates on this one, fused them. We can only travel between here and the last place that you lot visited."

I hear a sort of half-whimper, and look over to see the blond man—Rory, Rory Pond or whatever—looking a bit pale. River curls her lip grimly, and Amy's eyebrows crease in a sort of horrified concern.

"…Which is?" he prompts.

Bowtie Doctor winces and folds his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels rather like a guilty schoolboy. "Er… not exactly sure, actually."

"What do you mean, not exactly sure?"

"It's a sort of… _uncharted _planet. We got a bit off course, didn't poke our heads out for longer than a second—"

I can already tell that this is going to be bad.

"But, well, long story short, there were some roars and something that looked weirdly like a dinosaur footprint, but that's impossible, of course—that is, it couldn't be an Earth dinosaur, we were definitely in present time, so it's bound to be… well… worse."

"Worse than dinosaurs," Donna groans. "_Brilliant._" The Doctor I know actually presses his palm to his forehead, fingers massaging his scalp.

"Of course," he complains, the words muffled. "Of _course _you had to go to an _uncharted planet _full of bloody _dinosaurs _before coming to get us. Couldn't you have put it off just one more trip? Can't _I—_oh, but of course not… that would… mess things up," he trails off, looking miserable. "Well, it's good to know that I survive this, at least. Unless—" His eyes snap up to the other Doctor, who quickly shakes his head.

"Nope, it's not this." And yet there's something about the tone of his voice, about a new mist of sadness in his eyes, that puts me on edge. I notice him glance towards Sherlock and John, who are still taking in this new TARDIS. It's a wonder they're both still on their feet, if I'm honest with myself—these men can certainly handle a good bit of shock well.

"But wait," Ianto suddenly breaks in. I notice that he looks more than a little confused, which I can't really blame him for. I've never properly explained the Doctor to him, after all. "If you're the Doctor…" He nods in the direction of the spiky brown-haired man, "then how can _he _be the Doctor?" This time, an inclination towards Mr. Bowtie. "I mean, I understand if you were from different time streams, that's easy, but… you look different."

"Regeneration," they say together, and quickly turn to glare in each other's direction. My Doctor crosses his arms and turns away bad-temperedly, leaving the newer one to go on alone. "We're—I'm—an alien, a Time Lord. Last of the kind—well, except for the Master. He's not supposed to be here, though. He's died lots of times already. Well, permanently died. I've died, too," he continues brightly, "ten times now. But also not permanently. See, if the death isn't too quick, us Time Lords can regenerate. New body, new personality, but same old Doctor." He grins brightly as though that little speech cleared everything up, but Ianto just frowns more deeply. He sighs. "None of you are any fun, what's with that? I"—he points to the Doctor, who's stubbornly staring in the other direction—"am him. And he's me. I'm him from the future, in a different body, because _he _died. Only not really. He's right here, still." He pats his own shoulder importantly. "I do miss that hair, though, sometimes. It was quite fun."

Amy's mouth quirks up. "Yours isn't too bad, Doctor."

"Why, thank you."

Ianto shakes his head slowly. "So… when we were all dying, the Doctor thought to himself that he could come and rescue us in the future. So he did. In the future. But now he's in the present, we all are, and… now that he knows he's going to… he has no choice but to do the same thing in the future. His future, his… other self's present. That will be his other self's past by the time it's his future."

The more cheerful Doctor nods brightly. "Exactly!"

Just then, the TARDIS's wheezy landing noises scrape against my eardrums, and both Doctors, along with Amy, Rory, River, Ianto, and John, widen their eyes and freeze their faces into rather frightened expressions. I clench my teeth in anticipation, slowly turning my head towards the door. _Dinosaur planet. _I'll admit, it's not the most promising of prospects.

"We can… we can just stay in here," Rory offers, looking a bit frantic. "in the TARDIS. It's a—a bit crowded, but we can manage, there are plenty of bedrooms…"

"But for how long?" River points out. "The Master will be here eventually, and the first place he'll go is the TARDIS. The smartest thing to do is probably get as far away from it as possible."

I just barely catch John's whispered "depends on your definition of 'smart.'"

"Well," the Doctor declares, "we have two choices. One." He holds up a single finger. "Stay here and wait for the Master to come and join us. And, trust me, it won't be a happy reunion. Or two." Another finger goes up. "Head outside, get some fresh jungle air, and take our chances with a planet of dinosaurish aliens who are probably nice enough and maybe even vegetarian. Or vegan. Vegan would be nice."

"Vegan would be very nice," the younger Doctor agrees coldly, "but why don't you tell us if they are or not?"

The older one's mouth twists thoughtfully, then he shrugs. "Eh, no. It'll ruin the fun." He shoots a sideways glance at River. "Spoilers."

"So we're going outside, then," Sherlock suddenly speaks up.

All of our attention shifts to him. He looks remarkably bored with the whole scenario, and I can't help but admire how carefully he maintains his coldness.

"Well—no one ever said that," the dark-haired Doctor stammers.

"Yes, you did."

"No… he didn't," River says quietly.

Sherlock sighs. "Good as. It'll ruin the fun, apparently, if he reveals rather or not these 'dinosaurs' are vegan. Clearly, that means there _is _'fun' to be had. He's already experienced this as the other Doctor, so he would know that. It's obvious by his attitude that his opinion of a fun time doesn't involve staying in the TARDIS, so clearly, he knows that we're going to be going out. Now, let's stop wasting time and get it over with."

He says this all quickly, in a low, relentless voice, and I, for one, am impressed. I glance around to see if my opinion is shared, and note that Rose, Martha, and Mickey all look a little alarmed. Donna just rolls her eyes.

Sherlock glances around at them, then shrugs. "Elementary."

John sighs through his nose.

"Well, well, _well,_ aren't you fun," the Doctor notes appreciatively.

The other Doctor just grumbles. "Like you didn't know that already."

"Hey, insulting yourself just looks idiotic," the first one reprimands him cheerfully, then prances over to the doorway. "Ooh, we're creating so many paradoxes right now… can you imagine the look on Rassilon's face?"

"I can't even imagine how he'd react to seeing _you,_" the second mutters.

"Oh, shush. Now, come on. The atmosphere out here's fine—Amy, Rory, why don't you two go and pack up some clothes and such for us? We can't leave the TARDIS _completely _unprepared. I think there might be a tent or two in the wardrobe—"

"Why would you keep a _tent _in a _wardrobe?_" Amy interrupts, wrinkling her nose.

"Well, there's hardly a tent closet, now, is there? Maybe there is." He pauses for a moment, one hand on the door, seeming to consider. "I should check for a tent closet someday… right, anyways. River, come with me, we're going to scout ahead. Oh, wait." From one of his pockets, he pulls what looks like a blocky communication device and tosses it over to Amy, who, eyes wide, catches it with her fingertips. "There we go. We'll be on the other end, telling you if there are any dinos out there—"

"…Even though you could probably tell us now."

"Give it a rest, Doc. Alright, everyone good? Back in a flash." Waving jauntily, he slips out the door, River behind him. A waft of thick, moist, warm air manages to leak in before he snaps it shut behind him, and though I can't see outside, an image of a dark green, glossy-leafed jungle comes to mind. I've never particularly liked jungles. They're… untrustworthy.

Amy clears her throat. "Right, then. Rory and I will just… go and get… food and stuff. Er…" She glances over the sea of heads before her. "R—Rose, right? Rose and… you two…" She gestures to Mickey and Martha. "If you could come help us carry stuff… and, you, Doctor? You probably know your way around here pretty well."

He shakes his head, looking sullen. "Not this. This isn't my TARDIS. But I'll help anyways," he adds grudgingly. It's clear that he's not used to being out of his first-in-command place as he scurries after them, leaving me with Donna, Ianto, Sherlock, and John.

"Well." Donna flops down on a leather-cushioned bench. "Isn't this just _brilliant. _Trapped on a planet of dinosaurs. I do love a planet of dinosaurs." Her voice is contorted with sarcasm.

John just shakes his head slowly. "It's just so… _bizarre. _Hard to take in."

I give a small laugh. "You get used to it."

His eyes raise up to meet mine, but I only notice it out of the corner of my vision—I'm still trying to figure out what will prompt Sherlock to look in my direction without glaring. John seems to notice this, or at least I can assume so by the way he tenses. Being jealous, now, is he? He has even less right to than Ianto. Though Ianto does have some right, I'll confess. Right, just no reason. It would be nice if he could understand that I don't intend to leave him any time soon. I just can't stay entirely devoted to him. I wouldn't be able to stay entirely devoted to _anyone, _not even the Doctor. It's a wonder how some people do.

"Well, I can't see myself getting used to it any time." John crosses his arms and glances from left to right, marveling at the structure of the TARDIS. "And now we're trapped here. It just—it feels like a dream, don't you think, Sherlock? Just to imagine that Mrs. Hudson is at home right now, that she'll be wondering where we are in a few hours… we'll be missing, you know, and she'll probably end up having to go to Lestrade, telling him that his favorite consulting detective is gone…"

Sherlock scoffs. "If Lestrade has any brains left at all, he'll know that we're perfectly fine. I never go missing unintentionally."

"You're calling this intentional?" I ask half-teasingly. "You were pretty much threatened with a bomb, you realize."

His pale green-grey eyes don't so much as flicker. "If it had been a matter of choice, nothing would be different."

"Well, that's admirable," I offer. "Not many people these days who'll go into an adventure willingly. Seems like they prefer to stay home staring at screens. You seem to be a pretty unique man, Sherlock Holmes."

I take this opportunity to check on Ianto, who's still standing quite stiffly next to me. His face is an unreadable mask that I can't deny twists my heart just a tiny bit. So I resign to leave Sherlock alone, instead taking a step closer to Ianto and squeezing his shoulder. "You alright?"

"Fine."

"You didn't ask to be pulled into this, either."

"I didn't take the lift," he replies simply. Which is true. I offered him an escape, and he left it, because he didn't want to leave me. My stomach suddenly feels poisoned with guilt. I really shouldn't be acting this cruelly to him. He deserves better.

_Maybe he does deserve 'better,' _a nasty little voice in the back of my mind taunts, but I manage to ignore it. Somewhat. Whatever he deserves, he _wants _me, and he's made that clear enough. I just have to respect his decision a little more, that's all. It's not that we have a _problem _with our relationship, exactly; it's just that, sometimes, I feel like we view it in different ways.

That doesn't matter, though. It doesn't matter, because I'm not going to let him go and he's not going to let me go, and nothing else is important, not in the scheme of things.

"I'm glad you didn't," I murmur back softly. His hand suddenly flies up, and he lays his fingers across my own, inhaling slowly. I can't push down the smile that spreads across my face, and I gently nuzzle the back of his head, a movement apparently too intimate for John, who looks away a bit self-consciously. Sherlock observes us as though we're a mildly interesting zoo display before taking a few steps over to the console and beginning to run his hands over the buttons.

"Um, you probably shouldn't do that," Rory's voice comes from the entrance to the room. Ianto flinches and drops his hand away from mine; I take it as a sign and step away, tucking my hands safely back into my pockets. Sherlock glances up as Rory, Amy, Mickey, Martha, Rose, and the Doctor come parading back in, all of them laden with what appear to be paper shopping bags. They deposit them on the ground, then Rose, Martha, and Amy hurry back from where they came, while Rory, Mickey, and the Doctor stay.

Rory, who's now holding the communication device that the other Doctor first gave to Amy, lifts it up to his mouth and carefully presses one of the buttons. "Doctor?" he asks.

There's a hissing crackle of static before the slightly distorted voice of the dark-haired Doctor comes from the other end. "Roranicus! How are you, mate?"

"…Fine… are you two coming back soon?"

"On our way just now. No dinosaurs, unfortunately, vegan or otherwise, but there are some absolutely _gorgeous _footprints, so we may be in luck yet. There _is _some sort of civilization here, though—well, it's not exactly civilization. More like a ghost town. A ghost town of what look rather like little military bunks of some type. Ghost military bunks. Ooh, creepy." The Doctor currently in the TARDIS winces visibly. "Anyhoo, they seem sheltered enough, if a bit broken down, and still feathers in the pillows, too. Though that's to be expected. Not like feathers disintegrate in all that much of a hurry. So we just may be in luck in terms of somewhere to sleep for the night, though I'd advise to bring the tents anyways in case a T-rex of some type decides to stomp on us in the middle of the night and we have to run. I'd love to see a T-rex, it's been ages since I've…" There are some indistinguishable but rather harsh words in what could be River's voice, and the next sentence is much clearer. "How's everything with you lot?"

"Good, fine. We're getting as much together as we can carry—"

"Excellent! Don't forget about River and me, we have arms, too. And be ready to move as soon as we're back, I think we've already pressed our luck as much as it's going to manage with the issue of the Master. He's bound to be here any moment, in other words."

"Right, okay. And how far away are you?"

"Knocking on the door, Pond. Hear?" A neat pattern of three taps comes from the outside of the TARDIS and the grainy speaker at the same time, just as Martha, Rose, and Amy reappear, carrying more of the shopping bags. Rory hastily shoves the device into a pocket and heads over to the door to let the Doctor and River in. Their entrance is accompanied by another blast of wet, furnace-like air, which I can't help but shy away from. The Doctor's hair is clinging to his neck with dampness, and he wipes a sodden handful out of his eyes, already reaching for a couple of the bags set on the floor and hoisting them into his arms.

"Alright," he announces, "everyone load up and follow me. We can't get out of here too fast. Doctor, you come last, I need you to lock up the TARDIS." He nods at the general crowd, hooks a third bag around his fingertips, and heads right back out the door, this time leaving it open so that I'm hit right in the face with the muggy, stale air.

"You heard him," River says simply as she gathers up some bags of her own. Slowly, Martha, Mickey, Amy, Rory, and Donna do the same, following in his direction. I glance at Ianto and shrug.

"Shall we?"

He nods silently and reaches over for bags. I take four, wincing as the paper handles cut into my arms. Looking in, I note that they seem to be full of what looks suspiciously like cat food, and decide that I'll just have to trust Amy and Rory's judgment this time around. It could be tuna or something. I've never been a big fan of tuna, myself, but we'll see—being barricaded in an abandoned military base on Dino-Planet could be more than enough to change me. I pause in the doorway, glancing back towards Donna, Sherlock, John, and the Doctor. "You all coming?"

Donna sighs and lifts up two of the bags, leaving the last nine to be divided among the three men. John takes his share without protest, completely silent and looking a bit shell-shocked—it's about time, too. I make a mental note to get him to sit down as soon as we reach wherever we're going. Sherlock, however, shoots the bags a look like they've personally offended him.

"Why should I take these?"

"If you want to starve and wear that Goth coat the whole time, that's your problem, vampire boy," Donna snaps. She's clearly in a bad mood—or, at least, I hope she is, since it is possible that she's always like this. I wouldn't know. Hopefully the Doctor's taste hasn't dropped that drastically.

Sherlock looks rather taken aback, but it seems her words have done their job, since he quietly takes a few of the bags. I stand back from the door to let the three of them go through, then give a little nod of my head for Ianto to do the same. He looks back and forth between me and the Doctor for a moment, then returns the gesture and leaves, so that I'm alone with the man I probably adore most in the world, as little as I'm sure he knows.

"So." Without pretense, I drop my load and cross my arms, watching him. He doesn't look in my direction, instead running his fingers along the edge of the TARDIS console.

"It's so… different," he murmurs softly.

I don't say anything, waiting for him to go on.

"It's just…" He looks up towards me, and his big brown eyes are filled with such a sudden pain that I feel a physical ache in my chest, and have to resist the urge to run over and draw him to me. "I don't like thinking about death, Jack. I—I'm going to be him someday. It just feels so…" He shrugs. "He doesn't seem too unhappy, generally. But… I _like _being me." His voice has lowered to a whisper, barely audible over the cacophony of the jungle outside. I shoulder the door shut, blocking out the disturbance, and the space between us suddenly feels much shorter and galaxy-wide at the same time.

"I… just…" He shakes his head slowly. "It's ridiculous, it's narcissistic, and yet—"

"It's not," I object. "There's nothing wrong with liking oneself. I'm not too displeased with my own body and mind, personally." The grin on my face is quite short-lived, the lonely sea of his eyes extinguishing it within a half second.

"You wanted to die, at one point."

I don't deny it.

"And I—well, I'll admit that in the past I've been… uncertain… about whether or not I want to go on. But… I… I'm so… scared." I suddenly notice that his eyes are, impossibly, swimming with suppressed tears. "I don't… I don't want it to end."

"It won't end," I try to tell him. "It—you'll become him. That's still you! That's your consciousness, that's your heart, that's—" _That's the man I'm in love with. _The man that I'm hopelessly, unconditionally in love with, the man who has got to be the most amazing creature in all the galaxies he traverses so easily, the man that the world—that every world—must spin for.

"But it's _not,_" he objects. "It's like… I'll be him, yes, I…" Then, suddenly, he's speaking very fast, his voice pained. "I just wonder sometimes. Wonder if—if it doesn't quite work that way. Because I have the memories, all of my memories, from all of my other… versions, and yet… sometimes I think that's _all _I have. Just the memories. Not the spirit. That's how it is, isn't it?"

"…I don't think so." I can't bear this any longer. I can't bear to see him like this, raw and with no projection, false or otherwise, of happiness in any form. "Doctor, listen to me. This version of you isn't the first one I met."

He nods slowly.

"It was your last self. Your ninth. You looked different. Still tall and thin, yeah, that doesn't seem to change. But your hair was shorter, darker. Your face was completely different. Your eyes were different." That they were. Icier, colder, more broken—the puppy-like orbs I'm confronted with now, melted chocolate-colored, wide and uncharacteristically vulnerable, couldn't have been more different. "And you acted different, too. Still had a brilliant sense of humor, though," I plow on determinedly. "Still had that ridiculous obsession with bananas."

For the first time since Rose's appearance, he cracks a smile. "Bananas are good," he murmurs defensively.

"I suppose so." I give a small chuckle. "But the point—the _point, _Doctor, is that there's one thing that hasn't changed since then."

"Oh?"

I take a few steps closer to him, my breath coming a bit more quickly. "The thing is, Doctor, I get involved with a lot of people. A month hardly goes by when I haven't screwed at least three different ones, probably multiple times, and I'm in what you could call a domestic relationship, too. Ianto," I add at his surprised-looking blink.

"Of course," he mutters to himself. "I should've realized. Is this… is this going anywhere?"

"Of course it is. Because it's rare that I'll actually fall for somebody. Actually, absolutely fall head-over-heels in love." The overused expression spikes a bitter laugh from my lungs, but I don't stop. Now that I've started saying this, I can't halt. "It hasn't happened all that much, especially in recent times, but—Doctor… the point is that I'm just as in love with you now as I was with your last incarnation. And it hasn't changed, that love. It's the same, because you're the _same person._"

I take a deep breath, my heart hammering madly against my ribs, letting that sink in. He seems incredibly nonplussed, and blinks at me a couple of times before slowly raising a hand up and running it through his hair, looking more than a little shocked.

"I—well…"

"And that doesn't need to change anything," I continue. "In fact, I don't want it to, because I have Ianto, and I honestly couldn't ask for more than that. But you might as well know. Because, Doctor, if there's one thing I can't bear, it's to see you like this. Okay?"

He swallows, then nods hesitantly. "All—alright."

"Does that help at all, or have I just creeped you out?" I half-tease.

He laughs nervously. "Well—it does help. It really does… thank you."

"It was overdue," I reply matter-of-factly, then return to the doorway and scoop up my bags again, hearing the rustles behind me that mean he's doing the same. I'm close to blushing, I realize, and I never blush. I can't deny that some part of me is wishing that a few moments ago could have turned into something more, but I suppose this is for the best. I'm just not ready to leave Ianto, not really. And, besides, the Doctor has Rose. Though, admittedly, I am trying frantically to tell myself that his feelings for her are purely platonic, as unlikely as that is.

I'm halfway through pushing the door open when there's a crash, and the Doctor's voice, strained and loud, suddenly assaults my ears in a single hard syllable. "Jack."

I glance back quickly, my insides stirred up by the harshness with which he speaks my name. I see him on the ground, on his knees, the bags lying on the ground beside him. I put mine down once more, running over as quickly as I can so that we're at the same height and his suddenly terrified face is only centimeters from mine.

"Doctor. What's wrong?"

"I—the looks he gives me," he whispers frantically. "Him, me, whatever—he… I don't know if the others can see it, but I can, I can see it in his eyes…"

"_What can you see, _Doctor?"

"The—the way that he looks at some of us… I… I can't say who, we aren't supposed to know, it will… it'll hurt things," he insists vaguely. "But… I can still… pain. He's hurting, he's hurting a thousand times worse than I am, because—Jack, I… and he knows that I know, of course, our whole _relationship _is full of—well, it's _made _of paradoxes, but…" He's rambling now.

"Doctor." I reach up and grasp one of his shoulders, staring at him as hard as I can. "Tell me. Just tell me what's wrong."

"…People," he breathes. "Before this is over… people are going to die, Jack. I still don't—I _can't _say who, but… unless I've missed something… four of us. By the end of this all, four of us are going to be dead."


	5. Amy Pond

**A/N** _C__hapter five! Believe it or not, one more chapter and we'll be halfway through this story. I don't know about you guys, but it seems to be going fast to me O.o__  
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**Thanks to** _Basia Orci, Silvermoon of Forestclan, and Storylover158__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

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**CHAPTER FIVE**

Amy Pond

When we start killing, it all will be falling down  
From the hell that we're in, all we are is faded away  
When we start killing  
When we start killing  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

Jack and the Doctor catch up to us a good twenty minutes later, and I tell myself that I'm only imagining the tear tracks on the latter's face. After all, he looks cheerful enough. And I can't imagine what could possibly motivate the Doctor, whichever form he might currently assume, to actually cry, especially not in front of the absolute flirt that seems to be Captain Jack Harkness. I'm curious about Jack, I'll confess. He's not all that unappealing, himself, though he does, irritatingly, seem to be taken already by that Ianto bloke. There's just something about the air between them, something tense and electric but soft and gentle at the same time. Typically, I wouldn't allow something like that to get in my way, but being gay isn't really something that I can alter. After all, I've seen the way that he looks at Sherlock, as well.

Sherlock puzzles me. He doesn't feel quite _human, _and yet he and John seem to have the least idea about what's going on of us all. Well, especially John. Sherlock himself actually appears rather intrigued, and doesn't even protest when confronted with the place we intend to spend the night. It's a small, low-ceilinged metal building with extremely thick walls and heavy-duty doors, printed with half-faded hazard messages. Inside are a few rusty cots and thin-mattressed bunks, and I have to confess, the Doctor's cheerful declaration that there are still feathers in the pillows isn't entirely accurate. There are exactly two pillows, and the second seems mostly flat. Still, it's better than nothing, I suppose.

The Doctor, my Doctor, sits Sherlock and John down immediately, flails a bit vaguely in the direction of his younger self, Jack, and Ianto, then whips back around to face me, Rory, Martha, Mickey, Donna, and Rose. River stands next to him, and at his little nod to her, she reaches into one of her paper bags and removes a stack of small radios like the one the Doctor and Rory had earlier. "First things first," she announces, "we need to make sure that we're all going to stay in contact with each other, at all times. There are only enough of these for each to be shared by a pair, so I suggest you partner up."

"What," Jack laughs, leaning casually against the metal post of one of the bunk beds, "like safety buddies? Should we hold hands, too?"

"Only if you want to look like an idiot," River replies crisply. "And who do you plan to be sticking with?"

Jack throws a look in the direction of Ianto, who shrugs and nods slightly. The Captain flips River a thumbs-up. "Looks like we're good." His hands have to move quite fast to catch the communicator that she then hurls in his direction, and I have to stifle laughter. It seems painfully obvious that they're jealous of each other, because of the Doctor. I'm still convinced that she's his wife, after all, and Jack clearly has more than a little interest.

"Alright, then, what about the rest of you?" she prompts.

"We're a team," Martha announces from her position beside Mickey. "We work well together, know each other's moves."

She nods and hands over another one. It doesn't take much longer for the younger Doctor to join forces with Rose, then River's eyes turn in the direction of Sherlock and John. "I'd assume you two want to be together," she conjectures, "but since you're also the least familiar with time and space travel as well as this technology, I think that it would be best if you're split."

John nods, reluctantly, and Sherlock just shrugs.

"Alright. John, I can take care of you."

"Which leaves me," the Doctor goes on brightly, grinning, "with Sherlock!"

It would appear that he's the only one so excited about this new development, as Sherlock actually breathes out a forced sigh and raises a slow hand to his forehead, massaging his temples in apparent resignation.

"Then… there are three of us left," I observe, counting. "Me, Rory, and Donna."

"If you could all stay together, that will probably work," River decides.

"Just," the Doctor adds, "Donna and Amy… _try _not to… get down each other's throats _too _much?"

I glance curiously at the other redhead, wondering what could prompt him to make this special request. I haven't noticed that much of Donna, but there is something about her expression that's challenging, almost superior. Excellent. I'll have someone to work off of, hopefully produce some nice friction. A situation is never complete unless I have someone to get irritated with, and Rory just doesn't fit the bill, poor guy. I absentmindedly reach out and ruffle his hair, and he freezes a bit awkwardly, apparently surprised by the movement.

"Calm down," I grumble. "A touch isn't going to kill you."

"Depends on who it's from," he replies nervously, and I can't help but think of the Weeping Angels. Surely there are none of _them _here. Of course, my last encounter with them _was _in a rather jungle-like forest… but a _false _one, I tell myself furiously, one inside of a ship, full of tree-borgs. This is nothing like that. I have enough to worry about what with the Master bloke and the Doctor's vegan dinosaurs.

But Rory doesn't even know about the Angels. He's not referencing anything like that, just being his usual paranoid and jumpy self. And now it seems that I'm joining him in personification of those particular adjectives, which is annoying, especially considering that I have Donna to contend with. I don't want her to see me as weak or frightened; the Doctor expects us to be intimidated by and frustrated with each other, and I certainly won't deny him that.

"Don't be stupid," I snap. His gaze flashes up to me, clearly hurt, and I look in the other direction.

River is still talking: "However, keep in mind that we probably—and hopefully—won't have to use these at all. Though it is still best to stay nearby the one—or ones—with whom you're sharing your communicator. That ought to be it, then…"

"But… wait." It's John who pipes up, stress gleaming in his eyes. "What do you mean, 'that ought to be it?' We don't have a _plan. _Sherlock and I don't even know why we're here, or what's going on. Moriarty and that—that _Master _could be here any moment, what are we supposed to do when they get here? And what are we supposed to do about them at all? I mean… they, well, don't they have an alien army or something? We can't just stay camped out on this—this planet while they go about destroying Earth." His voice tilts a little more towards sarcastic with each word, until _Earth _is practically snorted. Clearly, he's having a hard time believing this all, poor guy. I suppose most of us did, the first time the Doctor came for us. I know I did, for one. Couldn't even comprehend that my Raggedy Doctor had actually returned until he showed me that apple…

"Well, that's just it. What we need _now,_" the darker-haired Doctor plows on, taking over from River, "is, as lovely John said here, a _plan. _How are we going to stop him? Well, we do have at least two geniuses in the room"—he winks at himself—"and Martha and Jack have some experience with the Master. Mickey and Ianto know aliens pretty well, too. Not to mention River. As for the rest of you: I never choose companions unless I know that they could help me out in a bad situation."

"Can't you just…" I nod at the younger Doctor, who's standing with Rose in a corner, oddly stony-faced. "You've been here before, can't you tell us what happens?"

"Nope. Because I haven't come up with the idea yet."

To a stranger, and probably to Sherlock and John, he looks like he's saying that he has no more of a plan than we do. But the rest of us understand that it means something completely different—the other Doctor, the brown-haired one, is going to produce something. _Any moment now would be nice, _I think, _considering that we don't exactly have time to spare… I'm not even sure what we're trying to achieve here… _what _are _we going for? Defeating the Master and Moriarty, right? We can't hide from them forever…

"There's got to be a way to do this," the less familiar Doctor rasps suddenly. "I… this can't be fighting… I don't want… tell me if we fight." It's a demand to himself, the other version to himself. "We do, don't we?"

Something changes in my Doctor's face, just a tiny flicker of an expression I never would have been able to imagine on him. For that tiny instant, he looks… _broken. _Like some inner part of him has been torn out, like he's… _overwhelmed. _But he's the Doctor. He can't be overwhelmed. He… he's on top of everything, always has a backup plan, but this… his eyes darken, his head tilts a bit farther forward and his enthusiastic smile dissolves…

But he's covering it up moments later, pulling the grin back on with what appears to be a massive effort. "'Course we do. Fighting, that's what happens when insane psychopaths are involved." As light and airy as the words are, that doesn't lessen their impact. _Fighting, that's what happens when insane psychopaths are involved. _

"Pleasant," I mutter.

"Quite," Rory agrees a bit nervously.

"What I'm trying to say is that it's inevitable. Doesn't mean that any _major_ damage is inflicted, does it?" He pouts for a moment, then brightens up. "Anyways, if you ask me, there's only one way to fight aliens."

"Weapons," Jack states. I glance over at him and Ianto. I don't know much about this Torchwood place that they're supposedly from, but it certainly doesn't seem like a particularly peaceful one. And the Doctor doesn't like it, either. Jack certainly looks like he could be some sort of alien-killing superhero, what with his impressive figure and not-that-bad looks, either.

Dammit. Maybe I _can_ find some way to get aroundhis orientation… Rory certainly seemed gay enough at the beginning, after all…

"Well. Yes. Weapons are good," the Doctor agrees, and it's evident by the tone of his voice that he doesn't believe a single word of his own statement. "But… well, you can use weapons to fight _anything. _We're talking _aliens, _Jack, aliens."

"Well…" The look passing between Jack and Ianto conveys that they're not used to approaching extraterrestrials with any different method.

"…Other aliens," John says suddenly.

I blink and glance over at him in surprise, wondering if I could've mistaken his voice. Isn't he supposed to be sitting in a corner being all shocked or whatever? But he looks surprisingly intent, leaning forward slightly.

"Well—yes," the Doctor agrees, raising his eyebrows. "Exactly. Other aliens. But how would you—?"

"I _knew _you weren't just keeping those stupid old comic books for auctioning on Ebay," Sherlock mutters.

Comic books? I lift an incredulous eyebrow. Apparently, the quiet blonde man is a secret comic book geek, which is what prompted him to understand what the Doctor was communicating instantly. I haven't delved into the realm of that sort of thing too much, myself, but I do know that there are a lot of those big "versus" things—Godzilla meets the Creature from the Swamp or whatever. Hopefully we won't be fighting something quite _that _horrifying. After all, I haven't seen this 'army of aliens' myself, just heard the Doctor mention it.

"I thought I was supposed to come up with the idea," the Doctor—the younger Doctor—speaks up from the corner.

"You will," his older self agrees enthusiastically. "The _exact _idea."

"Well, that's not even fair," he mutters. "It's obvious now, isn't it? Your vegan dinosaur aliens… you expect us to harness them."

My heart skips a beat. Really? We're… we're going to go back to Earth with _dinosaur aliens? _

"But… they won't fit in the TARDIS," Rose insists, like _that's _the most ridiculous thing about the situation.

"So they're coming here," breathes Sherlock.

We all look at him in confusion. His pale eyes flick back and forth between the lot of us for a long moment, then he heaves a massive sigh. "Isn't it obvious? The Doctor already knows that we're going to end up fighting the Master and Moriarty with these… alien creatures, but they won't fit in the TARDIS. I saw the army, and the lot of them are all much smaller—though I suppose that the TARDIS won't be a constraint for them, after all, because it's not our enemies' method of transport—presumably, the way you speak of it is as though it's unique. _The _TARDIS, not _a _TARDIS, though the actual wording of the acronym implies a generic title for any machine of a similar model. So we aren't going there; for some reason, they're bringing the army _here… _but why? Why don't they take advantage of the fact that we're out of the way and commence with their… taking over the world?"

Well, I'd be nobody to say that that wasn't impressive—if for no other reason, because of the pace and monotone at which he uttered the catch of phrases.

"Alright, so they _are _coming," the slightly older Doctor admits, looking a bit harried for the first time.

"What time?" Jack questions quickly.

"I can't tell you that_ much…"_

"We're wasting time," the younger alien cuts in angrily. "Let's… if we have to do this, if we have to capture these dinosaurs, then let's do it sooner rather than later."

That _look_ crosses my Doctor's face, the distraught one, but he gives a slight nod anyways. "Quite right. It's best to get these things… out of the way… sooner, rather than later." I catch River's gaze out of the corner out of my eye, and know that I'm not the only one noticing his abnormal expression. The Doctor shakes his head a couple of times like a wet dog, and resurfaces looking notably brighter. "Alright, then, let's get this done. Everybody pair up… River, if you could stay here with John, that would be best. Martha and Mickey, come along—Jack and Ianto, too. Doctor and Rose can stay, if you don't have any objections."

"It's fine," the younger Doctor mutters.

"Brilliant. And… Rory's group, you would probably also do best to… to stay—"

"Um, no," I scoff. "That's not happening."

Donna nods emphatically. "You are _not _allowed to keep us out of the most interesting parts. No way."

I shoot her a sideways glance, and see a small smirk forming on her face. Maybe she won't be so bad after all. In fact… it's a possibility that we might do the opposite of clash, and actually end up working really well together. That would always be nice.

"Then… just you two?" he offers weakly, his gaze moving back and forth between us.

"I thought that we were divided into _buddies _or whatever," I point out. "Rory's coming with if we go, and we are. So…? Why so reluctant, anyways?"

"I'm not," he replies, and his voice is strained, faked. "Not reluctant at all. Let's go, then, everyone I said…"

"What about Sherlock?" John questions.

The Doctor looks uncharacteristically confused, as though he's forgotten about the two members of our little group who still have little to no idea what's going on. "What?" he asks a bit vaguely, and I notice that the fingers of his right hand are running obsessively over his left sleeve cuff, a rather nervous-looking habit. Something is off about him, and it's making me uneasy—very uneasy.

"Sherlock," John repeats. The dark-haired detective himself is looking away, as though he isn't being talked about at all. "You didn't say if you want him to stay or go. But he's paired with you, so I guess…?"

A quick headshake from River rather than the Doctor dispels this suspicion. "No, you two should both stay here, you're not sure what you're doing. Doctor, are you sure that I shouldn't go with you? Amy and Rory could stay…"

"We're not _staying, _River," I sigh. "Wasn't that just cleared up? Sherlock and John are staying with River and the Doctor, then." The blonde, too, but it seems that I've forgotten her name in the last few moments. She glances up towards me, and we lock eyes for a moment, sending an inexplicable chill through me. There's something about her eyes—despite their seemingly even, chocolate brown tones, there's another depth to them, something oddly golden—it's not a physical thing, exactly, more of a… spiritual level to her rather lovely irises, something old, something wise… I know nothing about her, not even her name, at the moment, and yet there's something amazingly electric about her, something that leads me to believe that her time with the Doctor has been much more… scarring, somehow, than mine. Had a greater effect on her. And that effect, it's… it's kind of scary, to be completely honest.

"And Rose." It's the younger Doctor that speaks now, his voice a good deal quieter than his elder counterpart. That's her name, Rose. Rose. Such a normal name. It doesn't really suit her, either; she doesn't look delicate enough to be a Rose. Stronger than that…

"Amy," Rory calls. I blink, look away quickly from Rose, who I realize I've been staring at. I can feel her gaze stay pinned to the back of my head as I follow the small parade of people out the door, though, and it makes me feel uneasy. It's not that I don't trust her—on the contrary, she seems very loyal to the Doctor. But I can't put aside the fact that some aspect of her makes me wary. It's for this reason that I stay silent as we hurry into the muggy jungle, with my Doctor in the lead and Rory behind me, trying to hold up the back, presumably. I pick up my pace for his benefit.

Trekking through the jungle, I have to say, is a thoroughly unpleasant experience. It would be bad enough with the oppressive heat alone, but the palpable moisture lacing the air adds a whole new level of discomfort, and the waist-level, large-leafed bushes aren't extremely helpful, either. Within a couple minutes of stumbling along silently, my hair is damp with sweat, and I have to repeatedly tuck it behind my ears. Donna, right ahead of me, is breathing heavily, and I can't blame her—the Doctor sets a rather rapid pace, and one that even I find challenging to keep up with.

"So, do you know where to find these dino creatures anyways?" Jack questions from a bit farther up the line. "Or are we just meandering aimlessly and waiting to be attacked?"

"There should be a clearing right up here," the Doctor replies, his voice oddly absent of its usual childlike enthusiasm and playful comments. "And if I'm right, then…"

His voice is cut off by a massive, throaty roar echoing from the trees a ways ahead of us. I yelp and half-jump backwards, crashing into Rory, who lets out a squeak of surprise and windmills his arms quickly in an effort not to be knocked over. We both manage to retain our standing positions, with me clinging to the front of his shirt. He blinks quickly at my close quarters to his face, and I cough slightly, stepping backwards and letting him go. It's not that I mind being pressed up against Rory, but the middle of a dinosaur-infested jungle probably isn't the best location for such a predicament—especially considering that one such creature has just let out that awful noise.

"Shit," I hear Jack whisper in awed shock, along with a gasp from what I'm guessing to be Ianto and a "What the hell is that?" from Donna.

Rory's pale grey-blue eyes widen, and I suddenly don't want to turn around, don't want to see what he's gawking at. But I force myself to, and am utterly blown away from the sight before me.

The creature is huge, towering a good seven feet or so above the highest treetops. It is indeed shaped like a dinosaur—if dinosaurs had ten-foot, springy, lizard-like legs, flat, wide bodies, and long, thin necks ending in spade-like heads that weave back and forth, pupil-less eyes like foggy blue marbles the size of footballs. Huge spikes line either side of its jaw, and I can see jagged teeth poking out from underneath. A ripping noise precedes the appearance of its tail, which likewise is crested with two-foot spikes, a dully glinting, stained yellow color.

I'm so transfixed by the sight of the behemoth that I don't have time to process just _how _fast the tail is moving, or how massively long it is. My body realizes before I do that it's heading straight for me, and my heart leaps into my throat, lungs pumping double time as my eyes fly wide open. I'm rooted to the spot, frozen, unable to do anything even as my mind races ahead of me, coming up with a thousand ways to avoid the probably unintentional attack.

What saves me is Rory.

He's there suddenly, jumping in front of me and flinging his arms out. His hand catches me in the chest, and I fall backwards, hitting the ground heavily and seeing a flash of white before my eyes. As soon as my surroundings stop spinning, I scramble into a sitting position, the heels of my hands scraping on the moist earthen ground. "Rory?" I cry, blinking my vision into focus.

I see him, and my blood turns to ice.

He's on the ground in a crumpled heap, half-lying and half-kneeling, one arm braced on the ground in front of him and the other wrapped tight around his stomach. I don't give a single instant of thought to the other people, or even to the dinosaur creatures, though I faintly hear yells from behind me, realize that they're probably starting to tame it. My mouth is dry, and my heart pounding far too loudly in my ears as I crawl forwards, extending a hand and placing it on his convulsing shoulder.

"Rory," I whisper again.

He looks up for a swift instant, and I see the pain in his eyes immediately, bright and fierce. His lips are pulled back from his teeth in a horrible grimace, his skin starkly pale, and the raising of his head gives me a better view of his midsection, of the horrible injury that he's trying to hide behind one hand. Blood is pouring over his fingers and onto the ground, and a good deal of his shirt is ripped away, leaving a dark, wet wound stretching eight inches over his stomach. I gasp unwillingly at the sight, and there's a blank sort of hollowness inside of me.

"No," I manage to choke out. "No, you idiot, you weren't supposed to do that…" _The tail spikes, _my mind tells me unnecessarily, _it was the damn tail spikes, he got one right in the gut and it's your fault, because you let him jump in to save you… _I stare for another few seconds, until he lets out a wordless whimper and ducks down again. That's when I come to my senses, straighten up and yell louder than I need to, but not as loud as I want to.

"Doctor! Doctor, he's hurt, _get over here!_"

The Doctor doesn't come, but Martha does, her dark eyes steady and intent. "Show me where it is," she instructs me immediately, crouching beside us. Ignoring her, I look wildly over her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the others. The dinosaur has disappeared, but the trees in front of us are thrashing. The only people in sight are Donna and Ianto, looking on anxiously, the other three presumably having gone to tame the awful beast.

"Amy." Martha grips one of my shoulders, and I'm forced to meet her gaze, but it's suddenly obscured by tears that I wipe away impatiently. This isn't the time to cry. I have to stay strong, have to make sure that Rory gets back safe, that he survives the—

_No. _I can't think the word _survive, _since it seems to imply that he might _not _make it, that he might… but I can't allow that, because this is _Rory, _I can't lose Rory, I won't lose Rory. He'll be fine if only I do what I can to help him—and what I can do right now is tell Martha what to do. "Stomach," I manage to explain, waving a hand in the general direction of Rory's wound. He's completely collapsed now, eyes half-open and chest heaving as he lies on the ground. I want to reach down and cradle his head, want it desperately, but I'm too afraid that even the slightest disturbance of his body with cause farther injury. His deathly pale hand has fallen away from his crimson-drenched shirt, and I can now see the full extent of the gash under his ribcage, think that I can even glimpse a hint of bone. It's absolutely disgusting, and I look away immediately, bile rising in my throat.

Martha leans in, but I thrust out an arm to stop her without thinking. "Leave him!" I hiss. "Don't—don't you touch him, don't you hurt him!"

"I've had years of medical training, Amy," she explains evenly. "You need to trust me on this. That's a bad wound, and if I don't help him, he's not going to make it."

"Shut up!" I can't hold back the tears any longer, and now they're streaking down my cheeks, choking up my voice. "Don't say that! He—he has to make it, he _will _make it, of course he will!"

"He probably will, yes, but only if you let me to him."

Perhaps she's speaking reasonably, but all I can think is that I can't let her hurt him. So I shake my head wildly, reach out to stop her when she tries to move in on him again. He's lying in a pool of blood now, the horrible black liquid shimmering in the greenish light that fills the jungle. Martha tries to hold my wrists back, but I refuse to let her get a proper grip on me. We're struggling wordlessly now, her trying to reach him and me forcing her away, no longer even trying to restrain the sobs gripping my throat. _Not Rory. Why Rory? Why did it have to be Rory? _

Arms suddenly come from behind, and I cry out in protest, but can't fight their strength. For a second, I think it's Ianto, since he was the only male other than Rory to be here last time I checked. But the owner of the arms turns me around then, pulls me to his chest, and I recognize the familiar scent of the Doctor, feel his stupid bowtie pressing against my shoulder. The damn alien must have finally been subdued, if he's back.

"Amy, let her help him," he whispers against the top of my head.

"No!" I scream back, trying to tear myself away. But his grip is strong, and as I wail and kick, it only grows firmer. "Stop it, _stop it, _let me go, let me get to him!"

"You'd only hurt him at this point, Amy."

His voice is oddly thick, and I manage to pull myself together long enough to look up, barely managing to focus on his face through my watery eyes. He's not crying, but he looks on the verge of it. And I realize, suddenly, that he's been through this all before—the other Doctor, back at our base, is a younger copy of him. He knows what's going to happen. So I reach up, gripping his collar and ignoring the fact that his hands are still secured around my forearms.

"Does he live?" I demand, my voice low and rough. "Tell me, Doctor. You know. Tell me if Rory lives through this."

"I can't, Amy… I'm sorry," he apologizes tiredly, his expression quiet and solemn. "I can't tell you how it's going to turn out…"

"I hate you!" I shriek, not caring about the pain that flashes in his dark eyes at the words. "I fucking _hate _you, if you can't—can't just tell me this one damn thing! He does, doesn't he? He survives! _Tell me that he survives, _you son of a _bitch!_"

He neither confirms it nor denies it, though, and I'm overcome by hacking sobs again, shaking my head rapidly and pressing my forehead into his shoulder. One of his hands lets me go, moving instead to run rapidly through my hair. I suck in a slow, shaky breath, afraid to look behind me, afraid to see if Martha's managed to make any progress with Rory. How can she, after all? How can she possibly save him at this point? I saw the extent of the injury myself, and there's no way—no _way—_that she can manage to save his life this far out into the jungle, with no medical supplies at all. Would it have hurt the Doctor that much to just bring out a few bandages?

"Why aren't you ever useful when it _matters?_" I demand wildly, intentionally making the words as harmful as possible, hoping to hit him in his weak spot. "Why can't you save someone who deserves to live instead of a million stupid, faceless people? Why can't you just—why can't you just save the only one who bloody _matters_?"

"I'm sorry," is all he says in response, his voice still insanely steady and incomprehensibly ancient. "I'm so sorry."


	6. John Watson

**A/N** _Wow, halfway through. This one gets a bit shippy once more.__  
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**Thanks to** _No reviewers last chapter. Change it this time? Please? c:__  
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**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

John Watson

We've been searching all along, but there's no trace to be found  
It's like they all have just vanished, but I know they're around  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

An alien planet.

An actual, genuine alien planet full of creatures resembling dinosaurs, with an oxygen-rich atmosphere and a jungle-like climate, full of bizarre plants and strange sounds, that we reached in the space of seconds via a police box that's bigger on the inside, led by two completely different-looking versions of the same inhuman man.

I feel like I'm about to explode.

It's not like I'm a stranger to the abnormal. At least, I didn't think I was. My time with Sherlock has exposed me to a good number of things that I never imagined possible, including Sherlock himself, but this—this is just _bizarre. _I still can't quite process that we're actually here, that this is actually happening, even as the curly-haired blonde woman, River, sits me down and tries to talk me through it, tries to explain.

"I imagine that it's bizarre for all this to be happening at once, John," she begins, watching me intently with amber-green eyes. "But we're going to need your help. You seem a very capable man, and you could be of great use to us for dealing with this... Moriarty. You seem to be avoiding most symptoms of shock so far—"

"I am," I agree numbly, slightly confused by the sound of my own voice. My gaze drifts over to Sherlock, who's speaking quickly and intently with the brown-haired Doctor. His voice is too low for me to hear, and I find myself silently watching the movement of his lips, my mind drifting even as words keep spilling out of my mouth. "I'm a doctor... I was in Afghanistan. I've dealt with my share of shock."

She sits back, a faintly surprised expression settling over her catlike features. "Yes," she finally decides, "I suppose you have."

I nod, sighing and shifting my stare to bore into the damp cement floor of the bunker. "I guess it's just... all so difficult to comprehend. I mean, I'm no stranger to science fiction, I was as into all that as much as anyone my age as a kid, but... I never really imagined that it could all be... real."

"It's not _all _real," she corrects bluntly. "Everything is a good deal more dangerous and exotic than any of those ridiculous old films portray it. You can't just hop into the TARDIS and hope that everything will be fine. That's one thing that you always have to be prepared for, John—assume that everything's hostile until proven otherwise. It's the only way you'll survive, unless you're the Doctor. He manages to get by with politeness, jokes, and jammy dodgers, but I've learned to neither question nor imitate his methods."

I crack a small smile at her vaguely humored tone, but the expression quickly falls from my face when several bangs sound from the front of the building. River whips her head around and springs to her feet, dashing over and quickly shouldering open one of the big double doors. My trained medic's sight instantly falls upon the bleeding body of the young blonde man who I remember as being named Rory. He seems semiconscious, and is held up by the slim arms of Martha, while the redheaded Scot is being restrained by the Doctor. Her face is flushed and teary, and my stomach turns as I wonder what possibly could have injured her husband so horribly. Without thinking, I'm on my feet, running over to them.

"What happened?" I demand.

Rather than answering me, the Doctor rapidly fires off the facts to River. "We managed to catch a couple, but one got defensive. Ianto, Jack, Mickey, and Donna are still back there calming it down. Martha's a doctor, she can help—there should be a first-aid kit under the third bunk on the right, if you could grab it, River. Martha, lay Rory down on that bed—yes, right there. Everyone else, just... just try to stay back." His usually cheery tone is strained, his eyes moving quickly among the subjects of his speech.

Martha nods, her large, dark fawn's eyes burning with intensity as she moves to transport Rory. He groans as his body settles against the mattress, bright red blood immediately staining the thin sheet pulled tight over it. A strangled sob comes from the doorway, and I don't need to look back to know that it comes from Amy. I find myself moving closer, kneeling down next to it, getting a proper look at the slash in Rory's stomach for the first time. Whatever caused the ragged incision clearly pulled away as soon as the wound was created, since there's no foreign object embedded in it. That's something—the bleeding, at least, is at a maximum. Still, that doesn't mean that it's not bad, because it is. Taking a slow breath, I'm about to recommend the best way to treat the wound when I realize that I'm not the doctor in command here. I sit back reluctantly, allowing Martha to do her work as River delivers her the heavy metal box that I presume is a first-aid kit.

"It relaxes you, doesn't it?"

I jump slightly at Sherlock's unexpected voice, glancing over to see him crouched down next to me, watching the operation with a vivid intensity. "What do you mean?" I ask warily, trying not to focus on how close his smooth, intent profile is to my own face.

"Medicine. Doctoring. Moments ago, you could barely focus on River talking to you, you were so disconcerted. But his injury allows you to concentrate so well that you've probably forgotten for the time being that we're even on an alien planet."

I have indeed managed to shove that fact behind my notice, but Sherlock's words cause it to all come rushing back, and I take a deep breath, trying to orient myself. "I suppose so," I agree, giving him a slight nod but redirecting my gaze towards Martha and Rory. She's cut away the cloth around the wound, and is now attempting to cease the blood flow. I get my first proper glance at the laceration, and it's definitely not pretty. His stomach seems to be completely torn open, the injury being something around two inches deep, but it's thankfully not absurdly long—only about five inches. More of a stab than anything else.

Small, helpless whimpering noises come from the young man's mouth as Martha's hands move expertly over the damaged area, and his face has taken on a greyish hue. I honestly can't expect that he'll survive this, unless the woman turns out to be some sort of miracle worker. Amy's gone silent, tears streaming ceaselessly down her face as she looks on at her husband. The Doctor has his hand on her shoulder, watching gravely.

We all stand or sit like that in a semicircle around the bunk bed, in relative silence, as Martha intently works her magic, a few strands of dark hair falling over her face that she doesn't bother to push away. Finally, after a good ten or fifteen minutes of cleaning, stitching, and wrapping, she's managed to do a remarkably admirable job of cleansing the wound. Rory's completely passed out, breathing slowly through his mouth as she finishes the job and sits back.

"All we can do now is hope," she announces grimly. But I can tell when a doctor is hopeful, and my own verdict matches Martha's unspoken one—things are looking brighter than they could. He just might be able to get out alive. I can't hold back a small smile that tickles at my lips, and when I look over at Amy, she's doing the same, a weak grin marring the path of her soundless, ceaseless tears.

* * *

Sunset comes quite quickly after that, and I reason that the day on this planet is probably a good deal shorter than one of Earth's, especially considering that I'm fairly confident we landed only a little after noon. The Doctor brings out a bag of food and begins dealing out cans of fish and packets of dried fruit.

"It's not much," he apologizes as he presses the portion allotted to me into my hands, "but we don't know how long we're going to be here."

I bite back the fact that he probably _does _know—he's been here before, after all, if I can truly believe that he's a future version of the brown-haired man Sherlock and I first met. I don't want to seem arrogant, so I accept the food without comment. Sherlock, however, doesn't do nearly as much.

"I don't need this," he informs the Doctor, keeping his arms folded.

"I'd say that you do," the alien counters, raising his light eyebrows. "Shock isn't a good thing to go through on an empty stomach, and you haven't eaten since Martha and Mickey's rescue. Go on, take a couple of bites—it'll make you feel better."

"I'm not in _shock,_" Sherlock scoffs, "and you don't know me, I can last quite a while on no sustenance. Give it to someone who's actually hungry."

The Doctor sighs lowly, then gives a small shrug. "Alright, if you're so determined, grumpy-face. John will cooperate, though, won't he?" he adds, waving his hands vaguely in my direction.

"'Course," I agree. Despite the fact that I doubt I can calm down from my still-denying state enough to eat, I'll still attempt to do so. I'm not stupid—and Sherlock, despite his cleverness, really can be on occasion. "I'll try to get him to have some of mine," I tell the Doctor, who looks slightly more satisfied as he moves on to Rose.

"You really _should _eat," I murmur to Sherlock, fingering what looks like it might be a strip of dried mango.

"John, don't you be like that as well. You know perfectly well that I can—"

"Oh, shut up," I mutter, pressing the can of salmon in my hands towards him. His hands unconsciously open to accept it, a look of slight surprise settling over his face. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say," I add as his mouth opens. "Just eat the damn food. It'll make me feel less guilty, at least."

"I can't afford to slow down my mind right now."

"On the contrary, the Doctor—both of them—and River seem smart enough to keep us alive for the time being. You can take a couple hours of digesting. Honestly, it looks to me like this whole… crazy adventure thing is going to be a lot more about moving around than making your deductions, and it's definitely uncontroversial that you need energy for that."

He watches me for a steady moment with those penetrating, grey-green eyes, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, then gives a small nod and pops open the can's lid with a swift movement of his thumb. "I'm flattered that you're so concerned about me," he offers half-sarcastically, carefully removing the thin circle of metal.

"You shouldn't be," I grumble, forcing myself to look away from his piercing gaze. I haven't always felt so exposed when pinned down by his stare—it started up recently, but now I can never shake the heated, restless feeling in my chest and stomach that comes with direct eye contact between the two of us. He chuckles lowly, and I distract myself from the low, velvety sound by forcing a handful of the dried mango into my mouth. We make our way through the small servings of food in silence, and despite the size of my amount, I can barely keep it down. Hopefully I'll be hungrier tomorrow; like the Doctor said, things won't turn out well if I'm experiencing all this bizarre, foreign insanity on an empty stomach.

Gradually, everyone who's been eating—sitting in small huddles of two or three—begin to stretch and yawn. Mickey, Jack, and the others who had been working with the aliens returned a while back, with the news that their attempt had been greatly successful. Apparently, three of the creatures are now tamed—or at the very least subdued—and the Doctor suggested that we go down to try and attempt beginning to train them tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to such a thing all too much myself, but if Sherlock will be there, I can probably cope.

He's what's rooting me down, really—Sherlock. I can still remember when we first met, he was a venture, a daring thing to add to my life. But now he's… well, home, more than Harry or the rest of my family, more than the long line of girlfriends that I've finally given up on, more than Mrs. Hudson, more than Baker Street. No matter how exasperating he is, how pompous and snarky and ignorant and cold and heartless, he's still managed to become everything to me.

Maybe I should be anxious or even scared about the fact that my life has tied itself to a single person. I'm not, though—because I'm utterly confident that I'll never lose him. It's just an impossible thing, one that I'm not going to waste time thinking about simply because of its utter ridiculousness. Besides, I'm getting tired, and I can't deny how relieved I am when Jack loudly announces that people ought to be getting to bed.

"Rest is gonna be essential for everyone," he announces, standing up and throwing a food wrapper over his shoulder. "I know that it's probably difficult for all of you girls to calm down, but do keep in mind that we have a long day waiting for us tomorrow—probably a long many days. The best thing we can have here is rest, so I'm turning off the light in ten minutes. We don't have anything comfy to wear, so just pile into the bunks and hope that you can cozy yourself off enough to get a nice sleep."

The 'light' that he's referring to is a single bulb dangling from the ceiling, casting a surprisingly warm amber glow over the cracked concrete floor and walls. It's brighter than one might expect from such a small thing, but the corners of the room are nevertheless drenched in shadow.

"Looks like three sets of us are going to have to pair up," Amy announces from the corner where she's sitting by Rory's bed. "There are thirteen of us and only five double bunks."

"Ianto and I will manage," Jack promises with a grin, and Mickey and Martha murmur the same.

"Then I suppose I'll just be with—" Amy begins.

"Not Rory," River cuts in swiftly, a light of faint apology glinting in her eyes. "I'm sorry, but he needs space right now. If there's anyone else, though…" Her gaze cuts over the rest of us—me, Sherlock, both Doctors, Rose, Donna. None of who would probably be comfortable sharing bedding, except for…

"We can," I say, my throat feeling oddly dry. I stare at the ground, feeling Sherlock stiffen next to me in slight surprise. I try not to think about the fact that the only people who've volunteered so far are romantic couples, but River's tone of voice erases all hope of ignoring it.

"Oh, well, if that works for you," she allows in a too-offhand way. I nod quickly, hands on my knees, and the world seems to be held in an awkward sort of suspension before the darker-haired Doctor finally takes the reins.

"Everyone find somewhere to kip, then. Captain Harkness is turning the light off in seven minutes, now—good to get as comfortable as you can before it's pitch black."

"D'you just want to… sleep here, then?" I suggest softly, finally daring to glance up at Sherlock. He's watching me oddly, brows drawn together and lips pressed tight. But he gives a small nod, which I return, proceeding to stretch my legs and slip off my shoes and jacket before swinging my legs up onto the bed. I might've taken more off had I been alone in the skinny bunk, but the thought of doing such at the moment is petrifying even to think about. Within moments, I've tucked my legs under the sheet, sitting up with my hands braced on the mattress and watching Sherlock. He hasn't moved a centimeter, but rather is staring into space, seemingly oblivious of the rustles and whispers around him of others preparing for sleep.

"Hey," I finally murmur, "you might want to get settled down."

"I don't sleep, John, you know that," he replies steadily without turning to face me.

"You also don't eat," I half-snap, a bit of exasperation toying at my patience, "and yet I just got you too. If you ever need rest, it's now. Come on, get under the sheets. It's just a few hours."

He turns a confused-looking green stare on me, and my breath catches for a moment as his icy irises seem to bore into mine. Then, with a grumbling sort of sigh, he slowly removes his shoes, scarf, and coat, then pulls his legs onto the bed, yanking the cotton sheet and thin felt blanket over himself and grimacing the whole time. "This is ridiculous," he gets out through impossibly gritted teeth, but I just roll my eyes.

"The only ridiculous thing in play here is that you intend to sleep with that suit top. You'll be fine with the shirt."

"I'll be fine with the top."

"Sherlock."

"I know what's comfortable for me," he hisses lowly, but I glare back defiantly.

"You're going to be sore as hell in the morning if you don't at least take off that ridiculously tight thing. There's nothing to be humiliated about—"

"I'm not _humiliated!_" he insists, but the stress in his eyes tells another story. I raise my eyebrows, and with his heaviest huff yet, he reluctantly unbuttons the front of his suit, pulling it off his arms and leaving only an insanely tight cream-colored shirt underneath.

"There," I sigh, "not so hard." I take it from him, gently place it on the ground on top of my jacket and his coat before finally laying down myself. After a brief hesitation, he does the same. We barely fit onto the mattress together, especially with the five inches of space between us that we both seem too nervous to make any smaller. After a few stiff minutes, the light flicks off, presumably courtesy of Jack, and we're left in absolute darkness. I stare at the wall I'm facing for at least thirty seconds, but the curtain of solid black doesn't give in the slightest. I may as well be blind—then again, I suppose that, if this really is an old military base, the doors would be sealed extremely tight. I adjust my position a bit, already uncomfortable with my tiny portion of space.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock's moving too—at first, I think he's just doing the same as me, but then his slender arms reach out, wrap around my shoulders. I freeze as he presses his cheek against my shoulder, grip tightening around me and curly hair tickling at my neck. I can feel his pulse thrumming in his wrist where it strains against my shoulder, and his unexpectedly warm body is pressing all along my back and side. I'm tempted to ask what he's doing, but decide to remain silent, since this really is rather… nice. To be so close to him, especially at the end of such a bizarre day. We've never so much as hugged before, and yet this doesn't feel wrong, doesn't feel uncomfortable. Just… perfect, really. I finally let out my tense lungful of air, my eyes drifting shut as the ambient pattern of his shallow breathing coasts across my cheek. He smells good, smoky yet fresh, cool yet cozy… like home.

Thought of that word suddenly strikes a pang of homesickness deep in my stomach, and my muscles tighten involuntarily. I don't _want _to be here, on some strange alien planet—even if it is my childhood dream, a fantastical sci-fi adventure. I miss Baker Street, miss the fireplace and the rain that would so often hammer at the tall windows, miss the sizzling noises of Sherlock's experiments from the kitchen and the familiar motions of making a cup of tea. Miss the feel of my own bed…

_But this is better. _The revelation surprises me with its accuracy. If there's one thing I don't miss, it's being alone at night. Sure, it's not necessarily preferable to be in a virtual crowd when I'm trying to sleep, but Sherlock being here—being so close—makes up for it. I never would have imagined that I'd want something as intimate as sharing a bed with him, but now that I have it, it's amazing. His scent all around me, his arms tight against my chest… slowly, by degrees, I let my body relax entirely.

Something's missing, though.

I'm very, very cautious as I make the next move, but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, even though his still-light breathing shows that he's far from sleep. Carefully, my own hands lift, and then I lay them over his, pulling his arms in even tighter to me and running my thumb along the slender backs of his fingers, heating the cool skin with a soft rubbing motion. Rather than pulling away, as I half-expected, he lets out a low, vaguely pleasured noise, and I can feel his muscles shift against my chest as stomach as he impossibly increases the strength of his grip.

I've never felt safer.

And maybe that's why I fall asleep much faster than expected, with a helpless smile on my face.

* * *

A light buzzing noise wakes me. It's a static-filled sort of hum, twitching up and down like a radio with horrible frequency. At first, I try to ignore it, turning on my side and stretching my legs slightly. It's at that moment that I realize Sherlock has let go of me. Blinking several times, I let my eyes adjust, just enough to see his slim silhouette rising and falling evenly, facing away from me.

_Guess you do sleep after all._

It occurs to me then just how dark it was when I originally drifted off. It's clearly still nighttime, but there must be some sort of light source in play. Not to mention that odd buzzing. Curiosity taking over me, I straighten up, squinting into the soupy blackness. Everyone that I can make out still seems to be in bed, except for… there, in the corner, is a hunched figure. My heart begins pounding heavily, and my mouth goes dry, even as I know that there's no way a threat could have gotten in here without all of our knowledge.

_Right?_

Still, the thought of Moriarty or the Master being here is too terrifying to ignore. I force myself to lie back down again, keeping a small distance from Sherlock even though I'm tempted to wrap myself up in him again. It's vaguely uncomfortable without his warmth, though, and the sound is still underlying the damp air, irritating my ears. The more my sleepiness dissipates, the more I realize how inexplicable the foreign, humanoid figure is, until I'm on the brink of waking Sherlock out of pure anxiety.

But then I hear River's voice, see her curly-haired figure join the other one, and decide to remain silent.

"Doctor?" she murmurs softly. So that must be who it is. I relax slightly, but am too awake to get back to sleep at this point. Instead, I strain my ears, and can barely catch his whispered response.

"River, I'm sorry, but…"

"Shh," she cuts in softly. "I know that you don't want to talk to me, and I also know that you have no idea who I am yet. Even your other self doesn't… and he won't for a good while longer. It's alright, though, sweetie. You can trust me."

"I know I can… well, I _do._" Something about his tone conveys that he's referring to the future version of himself, emphasizing the fact that his current form doesn't quite value her to that level—not yet, at least. "The only thing is… well… it's difficult… to even believe in him, if you know what I mean—to believe that… there'll be an end… as pathetic as that sounds."

"It makes perfect sense."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"It's moronic, I know…"

"Not at all," River objects. "We're all afraid of death."

"Not the strongest of us."

There's a good thirty seconds, maybe a minute of silence after that, and I would've thought there conversation over if not for the conspicuous lack of either of them getting back to bed. I can still see them faintly, just over the curve of Sherlock's shoulder, and that buzzing hum hasn't died down in the least.

"Who are you?" the Doctor asks suddenly. "To me… are you… what I think…?"

"I can't read your mind, so that's impossible to tell," she replies in a remarkably even tone, especially considering his rather desperate one. "And I wouldn't answer even if I did know what you were thinking. Spoilers, love."

"Reasonable enough… it's hard, though, it's just that…"

"There's someone else, isn't there?" River asks finally, her voice amazingly gentle. "You can tell that we're going to be close, even if the exact extent of that relationship isn't clear to you yet… and you're wondering what might happen to that other person…"

He doesn't say a thing, but I can see his head droop down slightly, so that he's completely hunched over, probably staring at the ground. It's clear to both me and River that she's spot-on, but he doesn't give her an answer, even as more time passes by. My eyelids are starting to get heavy again, and a lingering sense of guilt for eavesdropping is creeping in on me, but I can't block out her next word.

"Rose?"

Again, the Doctor doesn't speak.

"Fair enough. I don't tell you, you don't tell me. We both abandon that secrecy later on, at one point. Don't you worry."

"I'm not worried," he mutters, which seems honest enough—he sounds more grudging than anything else.

"Good… what might that be, anyways?" she continues, and I can see her gesture towards something in his hands, a blocky sort of device.

"This?" he waves it slightly in the air, and the buzzing noise, which has faded to background ambience by now, hitches up a bit. "It's a… thing I found. Well—yes… in one of the back closets here. A… device. One I'm familiar with, actually… here, see, it allows you to track anyone on a planet. All you need is to have a DNA sample on hand. Slip it into this little compartment here… if that light grows green, they're on the planet. Red, nowhere near."

It strikes me at that point that the light illuminating their silhouettes is most certainly green, a pale hue but unmistakable one. Sudden chills race down my back, even as I tell myself that surely he's just put in one of his own hairs or something, to test if the thing is still working.

"…And who are you checking for?" River asks softly.

"Him."

"The Master?"

"Of course."

My stomach drops violently, and I have to resist gasping. _The Master. _The man who almost blew us up. Somehow, he's here, on this planet. We're not nearly as safe as I thought. Shivering out of nowhere, I scoot in closer to Sherlock, trying not to wake him even as I press myself against his warm body desperately. I need his comforting presence right now, need it more than anything, to reassure me that, no matter what happens with the Master and even Moriarty, he'll be here, he can't be taken away from me.

"I just had one of his hairs on my sleeve, don't know how it got there, but… I recognized it, thought I'd give it a try." He tosses the device from hand to hand pensively, then swallows, a clearly nervous action. "And he's here. I don't know how, but he is."

"Does the device show _where _he is?" River questions, her voice low and steady.

"It's supposed to, in this little window here… but it's cracked, impossible to tell. He could be anywhere… anywhere at all."

"But he's here for us."

"Definitely."

"Turn it off," she demands, rather harshly and abruptly. "That sound. It's stressing you out."

"I don't—"

"_Turn it off._"

Sighing, he obeys, and the light vanishes at the same instant as the noise. It's definitely a lot less stressful with the buzzing gone, though anxiety is still racing desperately around my stomach. I close my eyes tightly and reach out, unabashedly wrapping my arms around Sherlock. This time, I'm pulling him in instead of the reverse, and he stirs slightly but doesn't wake up when I bury my face in his shoulder, trying to stop myself from shivering with sudden fear. I'm not a man scared easily, but those aliens that we saw in the Master's base, those horrible creatures…

They're coming. They're here, and they're coming for us, and all we can do is wait.

I don't want to think about that. I can't _let _myself think about that.

Instead, I breathe in the smell of Sherlock and let it all fade away.


	7. River Song

**A/N** _Aaaaaaaaaaand I really have nothing to say here. I'm about to watch 'The Angels Take Manhattan' - wish me luck!__  
_

**Thanks to** _Lucyndareads, Silvermoon of Forestclan__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

River Song

I feel them getting closer, their howls are sending chills down my spine  
Our time is running out now, they're coming down the hills from behind  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

I'm the first one up the next morning, rummaging through the Doctor's bags of food and trying to figure out how much longer we can last with only the meager supplies. Presumably, the older version of my future husband has a general idea about just how long we'll be stuck on this planet, and prepared us with enough to deal with such. But if he really did calculate out exact portions, it looks like we'll only be here a couple of days. Either that, or some of us—_many _of us—aren't going to be sticking around to consume food.

The thought twists my stomach, but I try to shake it off, even as a voice whispers in my ear: _What if it's you? What if this planet is where it all ends? You already know that you don't meet any younger versions of him than his Tenth self, he said so… and that's him, the brown-haired one, so who's to say that this isn't your finale? He always did seem sad when he spoke of your first meeting—_

No. I give my head a slight shake, curls springing, and try to clear my mind. I'm not afraid of death—certainly not of my own, in any case. The Doctor has a future ahead of him, Amy and Rory have a future ahead of them, and that's what matters.

Well… hopefully Rory has a future ahead of him. I unwillingly look in the direction of my father, still looking very still and pale on his bottom bunk. His chest rises and falls slowly but unevenly, and I can hear his rasping breath even from halfway across the room. It's very noisy in comparison to the steady, murmuring inhalations and exhalations of everyone else, and not in a humorous way—it sounds as though his lungs are stretching and wheezing with every tiny gasp, struggling to hold on. I don't want him to die. He deserves better. And yet… if there really are people destined to die on this planet, I've little to no doubt that Rory is one of them.

_Amy will be devastated…_

I realize that I'm frozen over the food bag that I've been sorting through, my hands suspended in their light grip on a couple of cans. Taking a slow breath, I let go of them, sitting back on my heels. I can't pretend to focus right now, can't pretend to be useful. It must be past sunrise by now. I consider turning off the small lantern sitting on the floor next to me and going to open the wide doors instead, but everyone looks so peaceful in their sleep—the Doctor especially, I think as the amber shadows fall over his peaceful face, a face so much more familiar than the other one that had joined the TARDIS yesterday. Dark hair, deep-set eyes, prominent cheekbones and rectangular jaw…

"You've got it bad, haven't you, sugar?"

I start slightly at Jack's voice, then turn around to glare at him, rising into a standing position. He smirks, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. I'm slightly indignant that he managed to get out of bed completely without my notice, and I can't help but wonder how long he's been awake, watching me. "What are you talking about?" I snap defensively.

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. Him, right?" He lifts his hand from his elbow, uses it to gesture vaguely from one copy of the Doctor to the other. When I don't react, he just grins. "Yeah, it's a bit obvious. I can sympathize, though—me too, obviously." He states his infatuation with the man I love in a completely matter-of-fact way, and I can't deny that I bristle more than a little.

"What about… Ianto?" I question sharply, taking a moment to remember the name.

He shrugs, eyebrows raising and mouth turning down to match the gesture. "I'm not too fussed about him, personally," he drawls in that jarring American accent. "'Course he's special, but there've been a lot of them in such a position, over time. The Doctor… he's different. I imagine you know that, though."

"Quite well. Probably more so than you, in fact," I state icily, drawing each word out through my lips and teeth with cutting precision. However much Jack fancies himself in love with the Doctor, he ought to know his place.

"I know perfectly well that you've staked a claim," he replies calmly, his voice even and almost humorous. "No need to get fussed, sweetheart."

I can't stand to be alone with this flirty arse for another second. Seething, I turn around to the nearest bunk—Amy's—and reach out, shaking her shoulder. "Morning," I murmur as my mother stirs, a frown creasing her reddish eyebrows and her eyelids drooping open tiredly.

"Wha…?" she mumbles, blinking away strands of hair caught between her lashes.

I don't repeat myself, but instead leave her to prop herself up on her elbows, meanwhile going over to rouse the Doctor. Jack's already there, though, and I can't ignore the fact that my stomach clenches in frustration when he musters up the nerve to do such a thing. I push it aside, though, glancing around for more people to get up. But our loudness seems to have done the job for us: everyone else is either stretching or sitting up, and a chorus of exhausted groans and sleepy yawns fills the small space.

"Everyone, get up and split into pairs," I command immediately, raising my voice so that it can be heard over the collective rustles. "I'll hand out a bit of breakfast, then most of us are going to go down to the aliens and see what we can get done with them."

"Well, look who's all in control now," the older Doctor notes, sounding oddly approving as he stretches and hops out of bed. I try not to let my gaze linger on him, wondering what he'd think if he'd heard the conversation Jack and I were having moments earlier. I choose not to dwell on it, instead rifling through the food bags and managing to pull out enough small portions for each person—a banana and a couple of what look like 21st century energy bars. Sparse, but much better than nothing. I toss them towards everyone in an unconsciously cold manner, and both Amy and Ianto look a little surprised as they catch theirs, whereas Jack only smirks. Rose accepts hers quietly, offering me a small smile that I don't bother to return. I've seen the way the Doctor looks at her, and while I'd usually be able to put such a thing aside, Jack's managed to get me jealous already this morning.

"Martha and Rory—obviously—can stay behind this time," I announce a few minutes later, when everyone's quieted down, the silence muffled only by steady chewing and swallowing from all corners of the room. "Everyone else come, even Sherlock and John. It would be best for us all to familiarize ourselves with these creatures as much as possible."

"I'm not going," Amy objects immediately, fire flashing in her hazel eyes.

"Yes," I shoot back calmly, "you are. Lingering won't do anything to help Rory. In fact, chances are that he'll do better with more open air." That's completely made up, but I don't let it show in my face. "Besides, if he were awake, he'd want you to take care of yourself. The most essential aspect to training these creatures is getting them to trust us. And I have a feeling that every individual is going to have to warm up to them on their own. We can't afford to let you stay behind."

She glares, but I ignore it, my gaze brushing over the other occupants of the small room. "Any other objections?" I question, fully aware that my voice sounds more than a little bossy and truly not caring whatsoever. I'm most likely going to be in an irascible mood all day, thanks to Jack.

"I'd say we're all good," the Doctor announces cheerfully. If anyone else took that tone, I'd assume them to be ignorant of my internal frustration, but I can see in his eyes, intently meeting mine, that he can tell something is up. I maintain the stare for a split second before breaking off, nodding and starting for the door.

"Then let's get a move on."

"Have you eaten?"

It's the younger Doctor who speaks up this time, and his voice reminds me of last night and its occurrence—_the Master is on this planet—_but I shove it out of my mind. No use dwelling on things that we can't do anything about. I shake my head, ready to dismiss the issue he's brought up, but I'm stopped by a hand on my shoulder.

"Here."

I turn my head slightly and lock eyes with him. It's disconcerting to immerse myself in the entirely different-colored and shaped gaze of the exact same man I'd been looking at seconds before, and even more so to realize that, for him, those seconds are multiple years. He's holding up a banana, presumably the one I gave to him.

"No," I insist firmly, "that's yours."

"I'm not hungry," he retorts.

"Neither am I."

A moment of tension sizzles between us, both of us equally determined. It suddenly comes to me that we're the center of attention in the room, and I pull away grouchily, holding onto the damn banana. "Fine," I hiss, then stalk over to the double doors, throwing them open with a thrust of my shoulder and continuing into the sudden, blazing sunlight without flinching. "Doctor, round everyone else up and bring them when they're ready. I'll be down by the aliens."

I don't wait for an answer, but instead let the door bang shut behind me, sealing them all off. I take a deep breath, letting the warm, sweet morning air calm my racing heart. The atmosphere is full of bizarre, foreign creatures' chirps and trills, merging together to form a surprisingly relaxing symphony. I step down the path from yesterday, trying to ignore the pale brown stains splattered along it—Rory's blood. I'm not afraid of the dinosaur-like creatures myself—on the contrary, their minds seem almost therapeutically simple. Humans can be tedious to spend time around. Every action they execute is so complicated, so layered. How long has it been since somebody has done something, made a choice without weighing a thousand possibilities first, considering their faults and merits, contemplating effects on others and tolls on themselves…?

A headache battles to form for a handful of instants, pricking against the inside of my head before subsiding. I'm grateful for this, and reward my body's small triumph by taking a few more paces in the direction of the clearing where we keep the creatures. Yesterday, they had been roped to the trees in the least physically aggravating way possible, in a gesture that was more cautious than anything else. We didn't want to upset them, but it would be catastrophic if they managed to escape. As I approach the clearing, though, there's a very promising whining rumble that I recognize as their voices.

Despite what they did to my father, I'm not afraid of the creatures, not in the least. It was only a defensive action, one that they can hardly be blamed for. People—humans—have done much worse things in the past, with much less provocation. I know that Amy doesn't agree with me, but she's much closer to Rory than I am, her views are more unwillingly contorted. I can only hope that that he'll heal well, that there won't be any need for a lasting grudge between her and the animals we need to be able to cooperate with so desperately.

The animals in question let out a series of low braying noises as I finally push my way through the trees and lay eyes upon them. There are four of the gigantic beasts, all of their arrow-shaped heads pointed at me, wide, serpentine eyes seeming to X-ray my body. I lope up to the nearest creature cautiously, my arms raised in a neutral gesture as I murmur meaningless words. Slowly, the horizontal eyelids flicker, and the pupils dilate slightly as it ducks its head down. Now its lizard-like muzzle is only inches from my hand. I reach out, tentatively stroke the cool, scaled skin, and it lets out a low sort of rumble, a noise that could be interpreted as violent, but that I know is the opposite. I understand these animals, somehow. It's not that I'm someone particularly connected with nature—as a matter of fact, I tend to shoot before thinking to appreciate any non-human thing's beauty—but their veiled emotions… make sense to me. It's easy to appreciate creatures who have a more primitive mindset, who identify things as either _ally _or _enemy, _not the twisted mix of both that nearly everyone in my life seems to be.

The creature's head snaps away suddenly, its eyes flashing wide and its nostrils flaring. An instant later, I hear what it perceived before me: the absurdly loud crashing and chatting of the others making their way through the forest. My lips form a delicately frustrated snarl for a moment, then I shake it off, sighing and folding my arms as both Doctors, Amy, Rose, Jack, Ianto, Donna, Mickey, Sherlock, and John pour into the clearing. Amy's lips and eyebrows twist down in an expression of undisguised hatred as her eyes find the yellowed spikes of the nearest dinosaur's tail—which, I realize with a drop of my stomach, is still stained with the pale brown hue of dried blood.

"I'm not getting on those things," she warns, scowling deeply.

"Yes, you are," I retort. Her crimson-painted lips part in indignation, but I don't give her a chance to speak. "Amy, it's understandable that you dislike them, but it's essential to the function of the group that you do this. With Rory out of commission, you and Donna are paired up—"

"Did you do that on purpose?" Amy hisses suddenly, turning to face the older Doctor, her eyes wild. "Did you make us into a group of three because you knew that one of us wouldn't be a part of it very long?!"

He stares desperately at her, his eyes wide and lost-looking.

"Martha's occupied by him," Mickey points out from somewhere near the back of the group. "So if the Doctor was planning something like that, why would he leave me without a partner?"

"Yes—thank you, Mickey," the Doctor agrees, looking relieved, but not before Amy spits out defiance.

"Because she's not going to be occupied by him for very long. We all know that."

A moment passes in tense silence, interrupted only by the heavy, rasping breath of the four animals tethered around the clearing. Then I shake my head, speaking up again and trying not to meet Amy's furious and slightly teary hazel eyes. "We know nothing of that sort, and even if we did, it would be irrelevant. Rory got injured in an attempt to reach these dinosaurs, so let's not make his sacrifice be in vain. What we need to do is split up and try our best to figure out a way to mount these things—_carefully, _mind you; we don't need anyone else hurt. Doctor, Rose, and Mickey can take the one over there"—I gesture to one of the dinosaurs, a pale grey-blue color—"Jack, Ianto, Amy, and Donna over there, other Doctor, Sherlock, and John with me." I decide to leave the last dinosaur—the one that hurt Rory—without anyone for the time being. It's probably better that way. "Everyone good?"

A general murmur of assent fills the small crowd, and they melt off to their various stations. Sherlock's eyes are wide as he makes his way towards me, but not in the same amazed way as John's. It's more as if he's attempting to stretch them to their limits, to take in as much of his surroundings as his brain can possibly catalogue at once. My mouth twists into a slight smile as I watch, unable to resist—he simply looks so enraptured, so _admiring, _and that's an expression rarely seen on the faces of humans thrust suddenly into alien worlds. It's mature, and maturity is one thing that I can most definitely respect.

"You doing alright?" I hear John murmur softly to him. He scowls, the wonder on his face slipping away to make way for an irritated frown. He doesn't bother to answer his companion's question, but instead halts before me, his hands in his pockets and his chin tilting in questioning. He doesn't need to speak to make it clear that he's wondering what they're possibly meant to do now.

"Doctor?" I ask. Obviously, he already knows how to go about training these creatures, but I'm not about to force him to reveal his knowledge prematurely. So I decide to go for the ambiguous inquiry of "Any suggestions?"

"Well, what we definitely want to do is take things slowly," he starts off, hopping up next to me and completely contradicting his own words as he reaches up to brightly scratch the chin of the beast I'm standing next to. It snorts in astonishment, but seems to warm up slowly as he talks to it under his breath, his voice too low for me to make out the specific words. "These are actually remarkably trusting creatures," he continues at normal volume. "The only problem is that we've pretty much done everything possible to offend them so far. Tying someone and his family up to trees overnight isn't the most polite thing, even among alien races."

John's nodding slowly, his face vaguely blank as his blue-brown eyes follow the steady movement of the Doctor's hand. Sherlock, however, remains ice-cold, his expression chiseled and intent, clearly drinking in every word.

"Also, don't ever make the mistake of thinking that an alien doesn't have dignity. Not all of them are too keen on you just popping up onto their backs and taking off. There are formalities to be gone through first."

"Formalities?" John repeats, his brow creasing.

"Exactly!" the Doctor agrees brightly. He grins up at the dinosaur that's regarding him in an almost fond manner, and the sunlight catches reflects off his white teeth and catches in the usually dark strands of his hair, so that they glow a pale amber-crimson. His whole profile is illuminated from behind, and I catch my breath for a moment, gazing shamelessly at the pure perfection of his laughing face. Then the moment breaks, and I redirect my gaze to the ground, happiness nonetheless blooming inside my chest and erasing my last traces of annoyance. The Doctor just has a special something about him that never stops being amazing, never fails to dazzle me.

It's ridiculous, sometimes—just how much I love him.

"So, it should be something along the lines of _this _that we're going for." Moving to the dinosaur's side, he reaches up, gently rubbing at a spot on its shoulder. Slowly but surely, the great creatures swoops its head down, then proceeds to lower its whole body, not lying down but rather crouching, its eyes still glassy and unperturbed.

"Now, there's no way you just figured that out," I snort. "Time cheater."

"Hey, I play by the rules often enough. I deserve to take a break," he teases, patting the creature on its bony shoulder.

It's just then that I notice the wings.

Now that I see them, I'm amazed at the fact that I didn't before—not even yesterday, when we were practically wrestling to restrain these things. Then again, they blend in fairly well to the thing's back, tucked in neatly and only showing in a pair of twin crests rising up on either side of its spine. But I can see the edge of the appendages outlined against its ribcage. The skin must be incredibly thin, if they're that well-disguised.

"More like dragons than dinosaurs," John whispers in undisguised awe, clearly having just taken note of them, himself. Sherlock snorts at the comparison, but I have to admit I agree. The beasts of fantasy are the closest thing I can associate with these reptilian giants.

"Dragons," the Doctor repeats, sounding absurdly pleased. Then, out of nowhere, he suddenly heaves himself up, feet scrambling along the side of the animal as he manages to slip and slide his way onto his back. "Nothing like a little impulsivity," he gasps, catching his breath and flashing me a one-handed thumbs up as he uses his other fingers to wipe his dark flop of hair out of his sparkling eyes. "Never fails."

"Except for when it does," I comment dryly, but I'm smiling, as well. The Doctor beams back, then the dinosaur-dragon suddenly bucks, and he flails slightly in his attempt to get a proper grip. He finally manages to loop one arm loosely around its neck as its wings shoot out, filling much more of the clearing than I would have thought possible. Gasping slightly, I duck down, reaching out and managing to grip John and Sherlock's arms to force them into the same position. The wing spreads over us like a tent, sunlight shining through the paper-thin stretch of greenish scales. For a moment, I'm disoriented, but then suddenly I'm right next to the creature's massive, barrel-like stomach, the Doctor's hand is reaching down from the other side of its strong shoulders. I reach out without thinking, and then suddenly he's swooping me up, I'm in the air for a moment before I land ungracefully on its back. I initially slip, but then he heaves me into the proper position behind him. And it's _high _from this thing's back, at least eight feet to the ground. I dig my heels into its sides, breathing heavily, as my arms lasso themselves around his chest tightly, my chin resting on his shoulders. The rippling body of the creature below me quavers, then a massive tremor runs through it and my stomach drops rapidly, around with the ground.

My eyes are absurdly wide as the forest floor falls away from below us, and all I can hear is his laugh, light and free as the wind encircling us. Jack's congratulatory whoop rings up from the clearing, and I just barely catch sight of the other groups standing a ways away from their own creatures—John and Sherlock still in their crouching positions, and the former seeming to cling on to the latter's arm—before they disappear, to be replaced by what appear to be acres of treetops.

I take in a hasty breath of the thin air as our altitude seems to even out—we're high, absurdly, insanely high, so that the green carpet of the jungle seems to spread out around us like a tapestry. I can see scattered grey rectangles sprinkled among it—bunkers like the one we've been sleeping in, presumably—and what look to be craggy purplish mountains in the distance. Clouds' fog whips against my face, and it strikes me that this planet must have an extremely balanced atmosphere, for us to still be able to breathe properly this high up.

"This is crazy!" I choke out, and the words are almost instantly torn away from me as the dragon creature takes a low swoop. I suck in a shriek, and my arms tighten around the warm anchor of the Doctor, legs squeezing against the sides of our mount hard enough to bruise. He only lets out a shout of delight, and I suddenly realize that I'm laughing, laughing at the pure absurdity of our situation as we weave in and out of the clouds, first being drenched in moisture, then dried in sunlight, before the cycle starts all over again. I feel light, like I'm flying in a dream—and this _is _a dream, practically, a waking dream.

"Crazy is one thing you'll have to get used to if you intend to stay in touch with me, Miss River Song," he cries jubilantly, and I yelp with delighted astonishment as he completely lets go of the creature's neck, flinging his arms out and holding on with only his thighs. His figure shines with sunlight, and I hug him even tighter, pressing my cheek into his neck and linking my arms in front of his stomach as we dive and coast through the sky.

_If you intend to stay in touch with me… crazy. _And it's so, so true. The Doctor is crazy. He's brilliant, fantastic, genius, stunningly amazing—but, above all else, he is and always will be utterly _crazy. _And I wouldn't have it any other way.

"My Doctor," I murmur without thinking, inhaling his scent with pure pleasure. His aroma is a unique one, ever-changing from the many places he constantly visits, but with an underlying hint that never goes away—something old, but not unpleasantly so. It's intriguing, consuming, like the dust in a room of ancient artifacts, that glitters and spins in buttery shafts of sunlight. Mysterious, almost, but in a wholly accessible way. The Doctor is so, so much more than a man, and it's impossible to comprehend that I could ever settle for anything less. Amy has Rory, Jack has Ianto, Martha has Mickey and, unless I'm mistaken, Sherlock and John seem to have each other. But none of them—not even that ridiculous bastard Jack—will ever have the Doctor, at least not in the same way I do. He's mine, even if he doesn't know it yet.

_He's mine. _

"My River," he replies, glancing over his shoulder to lock eyes with me. And I'm surprised, confused, because his gaze isn't nearly as blissful as mine—in fact, he doesn't seem happy at all. The smile slips from my face, and the flying dinosaur's wing beats seem to lose some of their irregularity, straightening out as he continues to stare at me.

"…Doctor?" I ask carefully, tilting my head in question. "What's wrong?"

"…Nothing," he lies, turning away. But his head hangs a little lower, shoulders rounded, as though a huge weight has suddenly settled on his neck. "Nothing at all. Look at the view… beautiful, isn't it?"

But now the view is the last thing on my mind. "Tell me what's wrong. You can trust me, Doctor."

I can see his head shake, just ever so slightly. "Spoilers," he murmurs, and I suddenly release that we're descending, that the dragon-beast is cutting through the air, the trees, back into the clearing and thudding heavily to the ground. I think that the others are cheering, that I might even be smiling back at them, but it's as if I feel these things from somewhere entirely different, somewhere removed.

_Spoilers. _

"That was fantastic, River," Jack complements as he hurries to the side of the dinosaur, arms opening up to help me down. My eyebrows raise in confusion—he's complementing me, not the Doctor that he's so infatuated with?—but I don't comment, instead graciously accept his assistance and let him heave me to the ground, which I stand on in the least shaky way possible. Looking across the clearing, I can see the younger Doctor watching, a reluctant smile playing around his thin lips. He looks happier than I've seen him thus far, and it gives me hope as I turn to watch the Doctor jump down, bouncing about like an overeager child. His odd weariness from before is gone, to be replaced by juvenile enthusiasm.

"Well, I've been looking forward to that for quite a while," he declares with a wink in his younger self's direction. "Trust me, Doc, it's even more amazing than it looks. Alright, anyone else want to give it a shot? Sherlock, John—come on over here."

"Maybe it's best to try with someone else, first," I suggest, a bit alarmed by his selection of the two least experienced people among us. John's expression is frozen in a mixture of amazement and terror, while even Sherlock looks somewhat stunned.

"No, no, they'll be fine… _trust me,_" the Doctor implores, and I see that there's no choice—he clearly remembers from the past that the two men are meant to take the next ride.

"Fine," I sigh, "but also keep in mind that these creatures aren't just for recreation. We need to use them to fight—"

"Shh." He lifts a single finger to my lips, his eyes twinkling. "We can concern ourselves with that boring rubbish later. For now, let's give ourselves some time for enjoyment… there's no telling how long it'll last," he adds, and I give in with a small, tired nod. My lightness from earlier has completely dissipated when confronted with reality.

We're going to lose some of the people in this clearing. That much is inevitable.

"Okay, you two, it's something along the lines of this…" He helps the two up one at a time, Sherlock in front and John in the back. "It's easy enough—he should just flap around a bit and come back down. Only wants a wing stretch, that's all."

"And… if he doesn't come back?" John questions, his voice quavering. "They aren't exactly… trained, are they?"

"Trust me," the Doctor promises, grinning, "he'll come back." And with that, he slaps the side of the dragon-creature, and it takes off with a shrieking roar, Sherlock and John gripping onto him, both of them laughing ridiculously as it almost immediately shoots out of sight over the treetops. I've never seen Sherlock laugh before, and it's nice—it looks good on him, makes him look younger, happier.

"They're good with each other," I comment softly as the rush of wings fades into the distance. "Even if they don't realize it… once they do, they're going to be very happy."

"Very," Mickey agrees, and the others chorus agreement. Slowly, each little group resumes the attempted taming of their own dinosaurs, leaving me and the Doctor to stand and wait for the return of ours.

I try not to notice that, ever since my statement, he's remained completely silent, his face dark once more.


	8. The Eleventh Doctor

**A/N** _Enjoy your first character death~ ;3__  
_

**Thanks to** _Angelic Toaster__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

The Eleventh Doctor

When we start killing, it's all coming down right now  
From the nightmare we've created, I want to be awakened somehow  
(Want to be awakened right now)  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

None of them know.

And it hurts to see, hurts from every possible angle. Even my happiness burns, because I know that this is the end, that there are a select number of them that I'll never be seeing again after this.

_He's _different. _He's _lucky. He hates me, and I can see that now, I accept it, because I remember perfectly well what that felt like, back when I occupied that body, before the run-in with the alien after Donna's departure, the one that stabbed me through the chest and caused an entirely mundane regeneration. I don't blame him for it, because it's understandable enough. It's not only my past forms that despise my current one. I don't think about it, though—don't think about any of it, at least not while I'm around the rest of them, because I can't allow my internal misery to spread.

No, perhaps _misery _isn't the right way to describe the poison that constantly singes the edges of my two hearts, tingles in my throat and boils in my stomach. Because it's not all negative. It's almost a _good _pain, to see them alive, their blazingly bright spirits practically blinding me with their vivid existence. I've seen them extinguished once before, though, and I'm going to again. There's no denying it, no changing it, and I've come to accept that. This is the end for me, and it's the end for them, too.

I've trained myself to come to terms with that, and I can't allow it to break now.

So I keep my face bright, keep my laughter loud, but my hands linger every time I touch one of them, and I can't prevent that. It's a tiny, tiny gift to myself, just a miniscule allowance to make up for everything that I know I'm going to have to live through all over again.

It's coming closer, every second, ticking away like the heart of a clock, the ancient instrument used for tracking the element that I traverse so freely, but that I'll never be able to twist in the most important way, never be able to bend to my true advantage.

_Tick. Tick. Tick. _

Always, closer and closer. I don't try to put it off, don't try to deny it—I've learned my lesson with that.

Instead, I hold on to them as tight as I can while they're still here, trying not to let it show just how much I dread the release.

* * *

We only linger for a couple more hours after River and I master the first creature, just long enough to get a basic amount of training around all the others. Most everyone can fly them up and down evenly at this point, save Amy, who still refuses to touch them. Even as I try to persuade her to do so, say that her fear is unreasonable, the truth is that every fiber of me sympathizes with the pain in her eyes.

_I don't want him to die, either. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this had to happen, and I'm sorry that I can't fix it. _

Nevertheless, the sun is on the downfall by the time we begin the short, increasingly familiar trek back through the trees, towards the base where Martha and Rory wait. The day here is a full sixteen hours and three minutes, if I recall correctly from last time, a good eight-hour change from what they're all used to. Only enough time for two meals, as I let them know on the way.

"Don't you lot go expecting lunch, by the way. We've only got enough supplies to make it on two meals a day, and quite a few hours have been thrown out the window, anyways. Supper should be around in three hours or so, assuming you can all last till then?"

A general murmur of assent fills the warm, moist air, though it's a bit grudging on the parts of Amy and Jack. John just shrugs, and Sherlock doesn't react at all. His eyes have grown distant again, almost misty, but in a very focused way. I find myself staring at the man more and more as time goes by—he's even more remarkable than I remember from last time. Such a unique mind, such an overwhelming capacity—I can't help but admire it.

Still, he _does _need to eat every so often, even if he seems to make a sport of denying it. I make a mental note to confirm that he does get something in his stomach later, even if John has to shove it in that direction. Then I whirl back around, throwing my arms out in welcome of the door to our little grey bunker.

"Home sweet home!" I give a quick rap on the heavy doors, and they're pushed open moments later by Martha. She looks tired, her dark hair hanging in her wide, shadowed eyes, but she still pulls on a strained smile at the sight of us.

"How did it go?"

"Brilliantly," I assure her. "If we keep making progress like this, the Master and Moriarty won't know what hit them by the time we actually have to face 'em! Rory still hanging in there?"

Her face lights up at this, and we both step in to allow the flow of other people to move a bit faster through the doors. They all settle into their respective beds almost immediately—not lying down, just sitting, letting out various groans of exhaustion.

"He is," Martha confirms, "much better. Actually woke up for a few minutes a ways back, and he seemed remarkably articulate. It looks like we do have some hope after all."

"Good… good." A genuine smile comes to my face, sparked by her obvious belief in her words. It's good to see her happy, even if I know it won't last long. "Well, we made excellent progress on our dino friends, I'm delighted to say. Unless our M&M pals decide to wage a sudden attack on us with no warning whatsoever, we should be all good."

"And will they?"

"Wha…?" Her sharp question catches me off guard, and I make sure to plaster on a confused face before I dare to reveal the answer to it. "Sorry, Jones, can't tell you that one."

I see her lips frame her own surname—_Jones—_and then she shakes her head, slowly. I tilt my chin in confusion. "What is it?"

"Just… you," she admits, softly. "You've changed."

I only remember it just then—her infatuation with me. It's easy enough to forget, after all, to let go in the light of the entirely platonic friendship that I'd once believed us to share, before she made it all too clear that she was wishing for something else all along. I wish I could have known, almost, so that I didn't hurt her as much as I did in the end. She seems happy with Mickey now, though—happier than we ever could have been, or so I tell myself. After all, she was after Rose, and my companion filling in the place of the brilliant blonde was always destined to be a bit of a rebound.

_I cheated you, _I realize just then, sudden guilt wracking my chest as she turns to greet the others. _I offered you so much, but not what you wanted most of all… you were one in a long line of companions, but there's only ever one Doctor._

_I was so absurdly unfair…_

I shake myself, though, trying to push it aside, because focusing on the negative is the last thing I can allow myself to do right now. Instead, I bounce over to Sherlock, my 'partner,' simply because he's the nearest one to me and I need to talk to someone. Talking is good—it brings me into the moment, helps me craft a babbling, bubbly mask behind which to hide my inner emotion. People never want to see emotion from me. It scares them off, or at the very least makes them feel awkward. I'm meant to be a cheering agent, a mood-lightening device, and I don't mind taking on that role. When my actions make others smile, the grin on my own face becomes real, and that makes everything worth it.

"Doing alright?" I question of the detective. He shoots me a sharp glance, brows furrowing under his dark curls, and curls his lip, not deigning to respond. Instead, he turns his face away, his pale, perfect profile outlined against the sunlight shining in at a late-afternoon angle from the open door.

"He's fine," John amends with a sigh. The army doctor looks tired, the shadows under his eyes even more pronounced than they were yesterday, but still happy. Happy when he's around Sherlock, always.

It's funny, sometimes, how love can be so obvious from an outsider's point of view, but so hidden to the two clearly woven in its bindings.

"No need to be Mr. Grumpy Face," I mope in the detective's direction, but he does nothing more than roll his eyes and grumble under his breath.

"_No need_ to use childish nicknames for me, _Doctor._"

"And no need to be quite so melancholy!" I retort. "You're on an alien planet, Sherlock, the ultimate vacation—enjoy it!"

The look he gives me this time is practically comical in its absurdity, as though _enjoying _something is a completely foreign concept. But the words he utters next chill me with their accuracy, with their reasoning. "We're being tracked down by James Moriarty and an army of aliens _as we speak, _Doctor; I don't have time to _enjoy _myself."

It's times like this when I just want to hide, just want to run away and stop having to talk, stop having to always come up with a decent response to his icy remarks. But I can't do that—I have to stand tall, I have to make something up if necessary, just need to keep things flowing, keep my allies confident even if I'm falling apart on the inside. "On the contrary," I offer, my voice graver than intended, "I'd say this is the perfect time to do such a thing. After all, who knows how long it will last for any of us?"

My last words, which slipped out unintentionally, seem to cause my stomach to ice over. I don't let it show, though—don't even hang around long enough to see Sherlock's reaction, as a matter of fact. Instead, I whisk off again, glancing among the others. Everyone seems to be talking amongst themselves, and I'm just resigning myself to sitting alone when a soft, masculine voice sounds behind me.

"Doctor."

"Doctor," I reply evenly, not turning to face myself. I can tell it's him—I can _remember _it's him, and I know exactly what he's going to say, and I let him get the words out anyway.

"Listen—I'm sure you know this…" His voice is low and rapid-fire, hushed; he clearly wants to get the words out when no one else can hear. "But they're here. Or at least the Master is. He's here, I don't know how, but I'm sure Moriarty's with him, and if so, the aliens are as well…"

"I do know," I murmur. "I… haven't forgotten."

"…It's not the only thing you haven't forgotten, is it?" he goes on, suddenly, determinedly. "You remember—the four of them…"

"How could I not?" I finally turn around, knowing that my eyes are dark, to face him fully. It's a slightly dizzying experience, glaring into my own face, but I don't allow that to deter me. "They were important to me. They _are _important to me, and important to you, too. It's not something that's just let slide, Doctor. You know as well as I do."

"But… even—?"

"You've noticed all the right ones," I answer simply, with a slight, unwilling sigh. I can remember that perfectly well—seeing the darkness of the four deaths in my own eyes, before they even occurred. Maybe, just maybe, if I hadn't taken it for granted that I'd been correct in my assumptions, they would have survived. If only I expected them to make it, it could have been possible… "It was good, you know—to tell Jack. For someone else to know, other than us… other than me."

"Jack… yeah, I suppose so," he agrees. "He's seen a lot…"

"Felt a lot," I add in an almost teasing way, raising my eyebrows at the memory of the Captain's confession in the TARDIS. The younger version of me flushes, ducking his head down, and I can't help but laugh softly. The whole situation is just so absurd—teasing myself about a man I know perfectly well I have no interest in, and all the while only repeating lines that I recall myself saying, on cues that a future me created once upon a time in the past.

Very confusing, indeed.

"Well, there's hardly any use standing around," I finally announce, not all too keen on continuing to drift mindlessly through conversations. No one's listening to me, though—they all seem fairly absorbed in discussions among themselves. For the most part, people are staying in their same groups as were assigned: Jack and Ianto whispering something in the corner, Martha and Mickey conversing on one of the lower bunk beds, Sherlock and John glancing around as though not sure whether or not they belonged here, Amy and River sitting anxiously by Rory's side—even Rose and Donna seem to have banded together, and I can see them both laughing from where I stand, presumably discussing something that they can both relate to. Possibly _me, _I realize with a slight jolt—I can't imagine what else the office temp and the young saleswoman would have in common other than traveling the stars.

Having Rose back really is amazing. The thought impresses itself even deeper into my mind as I watch myself step over to join the two women, lounge against the wall and stare as they greet me with grins and welcoming. This version of me, I've learned, is more adept at adjusting to losses than my previous one. I can think about her regularly now, without it stabbing at my hearts every second. But at the same time, I've only numbed myself, not cured. Seeing her face again, her smile, is almost painful. I know her fate, too—know the fate of every person in this room except for myself. I scan the crowd slowly, wishing desperately that I could stop myself from naming off the future of each person my eyes fall upon.

_Dead, dead. Alive… alive and relatively well. Also alive. Abandoned… dead. Heartbroken. Miraculously alive. Dead… alive, of course. Dead, but not from today…_

That also hurts, to know that at least one of them—who am I kidding? All of them, all of _us, _save perhaps Jack, are still going to die. Even if we make it through this insane adventure, that's not to say we won't fade away eventually. Because we will.

Everyone always does.

Amy's voice startles me—I didn't notice her approach. "Who's being crabby today?" she taunts, and I'm amazed by the amount of sarcastic poutiness in her tones, enough to glance over with a startled smile crossing my lips. Her face looks less pale than I've seen it since Rory's attack, and a genuine grin is pulling at her own lipstick-painted mouth.

"Not crabby," I retort playfully. "You're looking quite a bit brighter, Pond."

"It's Rory," she explains. "He's loads better—Martha really is something of a miracle worker, it looks like. You should have told me that he survives, Doctor—you had me scared half to death!"

My positive expression falters, but not long enough for her to question it, thankfully. Because then she's talking again, chattering away as she reaches out and grabs my arm. "Come on, you have to look at him—River said she thought he might even wake up for a while, which would be wonderful, of course. It's funny, really…" Now she's dragging me over next to where Rory lays limply, River sitting by his side. "He's the injured one, but in a way, he's the safest of us all. He won't be fighting, after all, when it comes to that—safe and sound in this nifty little metal box." She raps the wall of the bunker affectionately, and I force myself to laugh lightly.

"You do rather have a fondness for boxes, don't you, Doctor?" River teases, glancing up with amusement as I crouch down next to her.

"So it would seem," I snort. My eyes rove over Rory's face. His skin is still waxy, but more colored than yesterday, and his breathing seems much easier. I give the wound itself a quick once-over, just enough to confirm that there's no fresh bleeding. But Martha's done an expert job of wrapping the bandage, and I find myself nodding slightly in approval. Amy has reason to be happy; he really does look wonderful in comparison to his previous appearance.

"Brilliant, right?" the ginger Scot insists, rocking back on her heels.

"Absolutely," I beam, folding my arms and setting my elbows on my knees. "At this rate, he'll be up and bouncing in no time. Congratulations, Amy." My eyes flicker towards her, and I direct my smile towards the wide grin touching her own lips. "Looks like you and your husband will get a happy ending after all."

* * *

The hours while away with a number of word games from all corners of the galaxy, courtesy of Jack, Martha, and Mickey, all of whom have traveled around enough to get a good load of them. We all stay surprisingly entertained, and even the Tenth and Sherlock have cracked slight smiles by the time River decides to break out the food. We all gorge ourselves shamelessly; working with the dinosaurs was an exhausting feat, and all too deserving of copious reward. Sherlock eats a good deal more than the night before with John's coaxing—a full serving, in fact—and Martha manages to get a few spoonfuls down Rory's throat, too. All of us are in good spirits once night sets in, though the majority of the group also seems a bit restless. Physically exhausted though they may be, it doesn't change the fact that they're used to several more hours of sunlight. Nonetheless, Sherlock and John drift off relatively soon, snuggled up next to each other as they were the previous night. Donna follows, then Jack and Ianto, Amy, the other Doctor, and finally River.

Martha and Mickey take the longest, their dark eyes shining in the low light from a lantern I've set up for a good while after the steady breathing of the rest fills the air. They murmur to each other, too, low words that I can't quite make out and have no desire to. I don't want to intrude on the privacy of the two, and I make sure to divert my eyes, gazing vaguely at the oppressive metal of the door. The concept of I myself getting to sleep is practically laughable.

I have too much to dread tomorrow.

And even though I know I should be at least _trying _to get rest, the concept is absurd. Chances are that I won't be able to sleep a wink tonight, and I know it perfectly well. I consider going off, trying to walk in the woods for a couple of hours—I'd be safe enough, and I know for a fact that I do make it through till tomorrow—but the noise of the door opening would probably wake the others, which is something I can't deal with right now. Instead, I suffice to perch on my bunk, the lower half of the bed shared with River, and swing my legs back and forth nervously. A bit later, Martha and Mickey drift off almost simultaneously, leaving me the only conscious person in the room. I tilt my head back, resting it against the dusty metal frame of the bunk. It's cold, but I don't mind the chill seeping into my skull. It's only when a slight cramp begins to set in that I reluctantly duck down again, a low sigh issuing into the air from between my lips.

"Doctor?"

I take a moment to identify the source of the voice, and when I do, my eyes widen in surprise. "Rory?" I breathe, staring amazedly at his pale eyes, shining in the lantern light. He seems lucid enough, his pupils in focus and his breaths coming out shallowly. I stand and take a few shuffling steps over to his bed before kneeling down, the icy cold from the cement floor bleeding into my knees through the thin layer of fabric that my trousers provide.

He looks a bit paler in waking, but still rather strong despite the obvious frailty induced by his wound. For a long, steady handful of seconds, he simply watches my face, breathing in and out, then speaks again. His voice is barely more than a whisper, and I realize that it must have taken all his energy to muster up something loud enough to grab my attention before.

"How… how bad is it?"

I know immediately that he's talking about his wound. "Not bad at all," I reassure mindlessly. "Wonderful, as a matter of fact. You'll heal up just fine, wait and see… this is certainly no time to lose Roranicus the Great, now, is it? You've made it through dying, you've made it through being _erased from time, _this'll be simplicity itself to recover from, right?" But even as I speak, I can feel the words getting thicker, harder to force through my throat. I still smile, but I know that the expression is crooked—it shows in the steadiness of his eyes.

"Don't lie to me," he says easily, calmly. "I don't care if I die, Doctor. It only makes sense, really. If anyone here wasn't going to make it…" Something flashes in his gaze suddenly, and he sucks in a deep breath. I tense automatically, but it seems as though the affliction was only mental, because he's resumed his shaky trail of speech instants later. "I just want to know that Amy survives. Tell me that Amy survives… after all this. She has to."

"Of course Amy survives," I agree as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "We both know that she's far too tough to be beaten by something as pathetic as a couple of psychopaths, right?"

"Rule number one," he murmurs, closing his eyes for a brief minute as if struggling to hold himself together. "The Doctor lies."

The last traces of a smile fall from my face, and I lean forward, reaching up to grasp his hand in one of my own. "But not all the time, Rory… not all the time. I can tell the truth, too. You know I can."

"I know that you _can,_" he allows, "but not when you _will. _For all I know, I survive and Amy doesn't… no." He shakes his head, a minute action that seems all the more significant for its smallness. "No, I'm not stupid. There's no way in hell that I'm going to make it through this."

"Don't talk like that."

"I'll talk however I like, Doctor." His breathing is getting heavier, quicker—he's going to black out again soon, and we both know it. He suddenly glances down towards our joined hands, his eyes gleaming faintly under their drooping lids. "And I just want you to know… before… before that happens, that…" His words slur and then drop into nothing as his fingers go limp. The movement of his chest becomes steady once more, and I sigh, closing my own eyes for a brief instant and lifting his hand to my forehead. I hold it there for a moment, just feeling his warm skin, savoring it.

_Thank you, Rory. For everything. You've been brilliant. _

Then I let go and step away, leaving him, retreating to my bunk where I'll spend the rest of the night in anxious dread.

* * *

I can sense the first bits of sunlight without seeing them. It's like my brain has been made into a clock—that horrible ticking clock—easily tracking the time on this planet. My stomach rumbles vaguely, apparently feeling cheated for not getting fed during the several long hours that I've been awake since supper. I ignore it, though, hunching forwards and gripping onto the sheets that I've half-pulled over my legs. My heart seems too heavy in my ears, the beats too steady and separate from one another.

_Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. _

I try to keep my breathing even, standing up with a disgusted jerk of my sheets and looking around the room, at all the sleeping faces. I'm tempted to open the door, to at least, literally, shed some light on the situation, but I'm afraid of what might happen if I do so.

_They might get in easier. _

I can't remember the exact time that the attack is scheduled to happen, and I try not to put too much thought to it, instead hurrying over to shake the shoulder of my younger self. His eyes flash open almost immediately, and I hold a finger to my lips. After he blinks a few times and sits up foggily, understanding crosses his face, and a dark shadow falls over it.

"They're coming?" he asks.

I simply stare at him for a long moment, then give a small, reluctant nod, turning away to face the door without a word. Rory still looks horribly vulnerable, curled on his bed, and I move towards him instinctively. I've spent hours pondering his words from last night—_I just want you to know… _and have come to the conclusion that they could have meant anything, but the only thing I know for sure is that it definitely wasn't negative. I don't want to lose Rory, not after that. The thought of him, at this point, brings a painfully sweet sort of throb to my chest, not something that I allow myself time to consider right now, even as his mortality seems to be blinding me.

The first sounds come then.

My hearts seem to leap into my throat, but I force myself to ignore the violent nausea rising up inside of me, instead standing and staring as low thuds reverberate through the floor. They're powerful, massive, and growing larger by the second. I hear the confused mumbles of the sleepy others as the shaking pounds rouse them, but I don't turn to face them, even when Amy calls out my name in desperate confusion. Instead, I stay with my face turned straight towards the door, arms at my sides, jaw tight. The pounding, steady as drumbeats but far more rapid, seems to accelerate yet more, and my heart and lungs are jumping as the murmurs around me turn to first cries, then yells.

"What's happening?" Rose wails, and her voice tears at my heartstrings, but I still don't turn around.

Then I feel a hand on my shoulder—River's hand, warm and firm, and her voice is at my ear, lips brushing against my hair.

"They aren't ready. None of us are ready, Doctor."

"I know," I breathe in response. "I had to live with that knowledge… all this time."

"We're not all going to make it." It's a fact, not a question, and I don't object to it.

"How many?"

I consider lying, or making something up, but the truth forces itself dryly out of my throat, the single syllable hanging cracked in the air. "Three."

I hear her suck in a breath, and I squeeze my eyes shut as the thuds become deafening. John's horrified shout of "What the hell?" burns at my hearing, and I suddenly want to run, want to be out of this bunker so that I can turn around and run as fast as I can, away from this threat, away from all these people who I love, three of whom aren't going to survive the next hour.

"I'm sorry," I whisper suddenly, and I'm reaching out, gripping River and pulling her close, turning her around so that she faces me. Her amber-green eyes are bright and quick, and I focus on them, my breath hitching up in my chest. "River, I'm so sorry, I wish—maybe if I'd done something differently…"

"There's nothing you could have changed, Doctor," she replies firmly. "Not everything is in your control. Is it me? Am I one of them?"

I don't answer her. I _can't _answer her.

"Well, _I'm not afraid,_" she insists, her voice firm and strong. "Not one bit, do you understand? Because even if this is the end for me, we still have so much ahead of us, you and me. Seeing you this far… you have so far to go, so much to live out. I don't care if this is the end of me, because it's not the end of us. Alright?"

Tears are welling up in my eyes, hot and painful, but I force myself to nod, not letting out a noise in the fear that it might transform itself into a choked sob.

"Good." Her hand slips up, cups my cheek. A smile curves her mouth, and a single tear runs down to her chin. The whole foundation of the building is shaking now, too violently and loudly for me to hear her next words. But I see them, on her lips and in her eyes.

_Thank you. _

Then the door bursts open, the first shot is fired and I feel her body go limp against mine. My own tears run free now, and a strangled moan works its way out of my throat as River slips to the ground, horribly still.

It's begun.


	9. Ianto Jones

**A/N** _FYI, I cannot write Ianto's pov FOR SHIT. He's just too subtle of a character for me to capture, I guess. Oh, well. _

**Thanks to** _EmRose92, KDVaren, and Vivelenne__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE**

Ianto Jones

When we start killing, it all will be falling down  
From the hell that we're in, all we are is faded away  
When we start killing, when we start killing  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

I dive instinctively to the ground as a massive boom wracks the building, throwing a hand over my eyes and scrambling backwards. The cement cracks underneath me, and my breath catches in my throat, barely managing to get out a choked cry. "Jack?" It's instinctive that I call out for him immediately, a reflex that I don't even think about. I feel a strong hand that could only be his, latching onto my wrist, and then I'm being pulled backwards. I manage to stumble to my feet, coughing and blinking furiously against the massive cloud of dust rising into the air. I can't imagine what caused the explosion, but I see a moment later—a huge, spiked tail crashes down on the small portion of ceiling that remains intact, and I dodge out of the way just as it comes crashing down.

It looks like we aren't the only ones who have harnessed some of the dinosaurs.

"Ianto?" Jack demands furiously, and I snap myself back into the present, turning away from the ghastly spectacle unfolding before me—all the walls around us collapsing at a faster and faster rate—and dashing after him. He bangs open a heavy door at the back of the room with his shoulder, and ushers me into what seems to be a small, dark storage compartment. It's damp and chilled, but the air quickly warms up as everyone else crowds in, the door finally slammed shut by a heavy-breathing Doctor.

"Where's River?" Amy demands immediately. She says it like it's an actual question, like we don't both know perfectly well. All of us saw River's last moments, frozen in the Doctor's arms, before a shadowy figure that I managed to recognize as a humanoid alien shot her straight through the back. There's no way that she survived that, and we all know that, but the Scotswoman's hazel eyes are still bright with denial, and she's shaking her head rapidly back and forth. I notice just then that she has Rory held between her and Martha—so he made it out, too. That's good, if he's alive—I can tell somehow that it will keep everyone's morale up.

"Alright, everyone, this wall won't hold them for long!" Jack yells over the general chaos, and even as Amy begins shouting at the silent and tormented-looking Doctor, he commands the attention of the room, raising his voice so that it overcomes hers. "Amy, everyone, _listen. _We need to get out of here—no one else can die."

"She's not _dead!_" Amy insists, but all of us know that it's a lie. I turn away, unable to cope with the sight of the tears welling up in her eyes. Instead, I turn my gaze towards Jack, trying to keep my eyes hard.

"What do we have to do?" I murmur to him.

"Ianto, thank God," he hisses, looking distinctly frustrated. "Someone's thinking reasonably." I know him well, though, and despite his lightly irritated attitude, I can tell that he's more than a little taken aback by River's sudden death, himself. His eyes are wider than usual, stress showing around them, and his lips quivering almost invisibly.

"Just tell me what I have to do."

"We have to get them all out of here," he explains, speaking rapidly. "Before the Master and Moriarty's troops manage to get around the back. And I think our best bet is to take off through the forest—can everyone get into their pairs?" he adds, raising his voice. "John, just go with the Doctor and Sherlock, since… right. Amy, Ianto and I will take Rory… don't be stupid," he snarls when she begins to shake her head rapidly. "I can carry him a lot easier than you. Here." He holds out his arms, and she reluctantly hands over the thin body of her husband, which he hoists over his shoulder. "Alright, now I'm going to open the door. Everyone, get out as fast as you possibly can. Don't worry about sticking with anyone but your partner—we can rendezvous at the next building, just keep heading directly away from this one, _don't get sidetracked._ Clear?"

Tense nods fill the room, and my hands stiffen into tight fists at my sides as he kicks at a door that I can just barely see outlined against the dimly lit wall of the room. Presumably, it leads outside—these suspicions of mine are confirmed a half-second later when it swings open, a heavy, rusted creak filling the air. Daylight streams in, and he begins waving his Rory-free arm rapidly. "Go, go, go!"

Everyone dashes except for me. I stay next to Jack, my hand on the metal wall, watching solemnly as alien shrieks fill the air and the rest of our party vanishes into the trees.

"Do you think they'll make it?" I question softly. He looks over at me, his stare sharp, but I don't acknowledge the ferocity in his glance, just return it.

"I don't know," he finally answers, exhaling heavily. I give a small nod. Of course he doesn't—none of us do. Hell, I don't even know if I'll survive all of this insanity at this point. All I can do is hope. And hope I do. I don't _want _to die, especially just now, when I'm finally finding a purpose in existence, finally fitting into a lifestyle I'm happy with.

_Finally in a relationship with Jack…_

"We can't just stay here," he mutters, turning back to the doorway. "They'll be after us, too, if we don't run. Come on."

I bolt after him as he dashes away suddenly, his feet thudding against the grassy jungle ground, leaving the charred remains of our base behind. I realize suddenly with a rather sick twist of my stomach that it contains all of our food, but I can't afford to stop running, so I don't—just keep going, keep moving as fast as I can. We'll have to find a way to survive. One of us does for sure, after all—I don't know much about the Doctor, but I've figured out at this point that the dark-haired, bowtie-wearing man is somehow a later version of the brown-haired, suited one. I suppose he must be some sort of alien, but not necessarily a dangerous one, and definitely not hostile.

Still, the rest of us… any of us could die.

Except for Jack. He'll make it, and that's encouraging, that motivates me even as my breaths start to drag in my fiery lungs. We've been running at full speed for a couple of minutes now, tearing through the trees, and I can feel the ground beginning to slope under my feet, so that I'm half-sliding, half-dashing. There are rips and howls behind us as we're pursued by the alien army, but I keep my mind fixed on Jack's back ahead of me, on my own feet thumping swifter and swifter against the ground. I have to imagine my partner's remarkable strength and speed, to be able to stay faster than me even with the weight of Rory draped over his shoulder. I force myself to pick up my pace, managing to draw right up next to him.

"How… far is it...?" I gasp, the words burning my throat. My arms pump furiously, propelling me farther and farther forwards.

"I can't be sure," he returns, his tone dark but amazingly even despite the sweat breaking out on his flushed forehead. "Hell, I don't even know if there _is _another base in this direction… for all I know, I just asked them all to run off a cliff or some shit." It's obvious that he's stressed, and I wish I could comfort him, but I'm too preoccupied with moving my own feet. Just when I'm about to start begging that we take a break, I hear a harsh whisper from somewhere ahead of me.

_"Jack! Ianto!"_

I skid to a halt, throwing a hand out to catch myself on a tree branch, and see Jack doing the same next to me. The next thing I know, there's a hand on my ankle, I'm hitting the ground and being dragged somewhere. I blink in confusion, managing to orient myself after a couple of seconds of dazedness. We seem to be sheltered under a massive crop of tree roots, which arch above our head and around us, padded with moss and almost completely closing us in. It's dark, save a latticed pattern of paler shadows from the twisting roots above us, and I can hear all of our breath moisturizing the air heavily. It takes me a moment to identify who's here other than me, Jack, and Rory, but then I see the older Doctor, a single pale finger held to his lips, and, behind him, two shadows that I manage to identify as Sherlock and John. They're both trembling and trying to hide it, though neither is particularly successful. I myself am shaking with adrenaline, and my hands are quivering before me. It sounds like a massive parade is tromping by outside, but I know that it's much less tame than that—there's an army out there, an army that wants us dead before we interfere with their plans to destroy Earth.

Sherlock was right, then, with his insane deduction—they were coming here. In fact, they are here, and I have no godly idea how they managed it. The creatures here are all matter of huge, and the only thing I can possible imagine is that they've somehow known this time was coming for years, been able to arrange for it. At first, the idea feels ridiculous, just a desperate explanation for an impossible setup, but then I begin to realize that perhaps it isn't so insane. I'm unfamiliar with all this time travel rubbish, after all—for all I know, the Master could have some way of warning his past self that all this was going to happen. Maybe we should have done the same thing, somehow… then again, our only vessel that could allow such a thing is the TARDIS, and it's currently locked between the explosion and now.

Nevertheless, Torchwood could have done much better with a warning, and I can't help but feel slightly begrudged against the older Doctor for never so much as stopping by to let us know about the future and what it holds for us.

_What it holds for us. _Even now, I can't be sure of what that might be.

"Are they gone?" John breathes when the noises outside finally begin to die down, but the Doctor shakes his head furiously, and the blonde man reluctantly falls silent again. I see Sherlock's hand reach out in the gloom, resting on John's shoulder in what looks almost like it's meant to be a comforting gesture.

"What _are _they?" I whisper, my voice barely audible in the tiny space. The Doctor sends me a swift glance, but it's curious rather than reprimanding, as though he didn't even notice me here. He bites his lip for a moment, considering, then launches into a swift flurry of hushed speech.

"They're… creatures. You weren't there, on Earth, but—well, before we all came to you, Martha and Mickey and Donna and Sherlock and John and I—when I say _I, _I obviously mean _him_," he adds for clarification. I give a small nod to show that I understand, and he goes on. "Well, we saw them, all of them… floors and floors, countless cages of creatures from all corners of the galaxy. I can only imagine that the Master and Moriarty were allies back in the time of Harry Saxon—not that you remember that, but… long story short, the Master died once, but I'm to believe that Moriarty kept working for him, then somehow managed to resurrect him… and here he is now, good as new, with a whole legion of beasties. Quite possible he has a vortex manipulator or some other crude Time Agent device," he continues darkly, shooting Jack a glare, "because I can't imagine how else he'd be able to bring them all to this planet. There's certainly no way he's got the TARDIS."

"We've got some gadgets," Jack admits grudgingly. "At Torchwood… he might have been able to break in a while ago and nab some of them. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but Tosh said he hacked into her computer, so I suppose you never know…"

The idea of Torchwood being robbed sends a ripple of extra unease through my stomach. The Hub has always felt safe, despite its stock of weevils and a certain pterodactyl, and the realization that it's quite possibly been infiltrated shakes the foundation of all my reliance on its strong walls.

"Well, there you have it." Sighing, the Doctor sits back, his chin tilted upwards slightly so that the greenish light seeping through the tree roots falls over his face. It emphasizes his rectangular jaw and strong cheekbones, and it strikes me that this man really looks the part of an alien, much more so than the large-eyed, thin-faced version of himself that first came to Torchwood… the one that Jack knows.

_Knows _is the word I think, but I'm perfectly aware that I'm using it as a substitute for something else. It's not as if my boyfriend doesn't flirt with every creatures that walks on two legs (he absolutely does), but it's still unsettling, the way he looks at the Doctor—at both Doctors, really. He's mentioned him before—_waiting for the right Doctor—_and I can't shake the feeling that the time-traveling alien was the reason for his disappearance after the incident with Abaddon. It's not that there's anything material between the two men, but I recognize the lusting look in Jack's eyes, and the only thing I can really do is try and ignore it, try and push down the jealousy that rears up inside of me every time their gazes meet.

"What are we going to do?" John rasps after another minute or so. It's been quiet outside of our tiny sanctuary for a couple of minutes now, and I as well am wondering just when we'll be able to make a move. By now, the others have probably found the next base, might even be waiting there for us. "We can't just stay here forever, they'll come back eventually."

"No… they'll probably just keep chasing the others until they wear themselves down…" One of the Doctor's long, pale fingers traces along the bottom of a particularly large and mossy root stretching over his head. "Then the Master will zap him back to Earth, knowing him, and keep them there until they've recovered enough to come for us again. Over and over, probably, until we're demolished…"

"But we _aren't _demolished," Jack points out, puzzled. "You made it."

"'Course I did… I always make it." Something in the Doctor's tone, despite his seemingly positive words, seems to echo the fact that he's not at all happy with such a predicament. "Not everyone else did, though—" He seems to bite back the next words, shoulders stiffening, but I can tell from Jack, Sherlock, and John's expressions that this isn't new information for any of them.

"We did already lose River," John agrees gently. "Still, a single death isn't much to pay… I know war…"

"It's going to be more than a single death," the Doctor replies simply, and John falls silent, a deep frown settling over his features. Instinctively, it would seem, he looks over at Sherlock, who's already been staring at him for the past several minutes. The space between them seems to electrify for a long moment, then the tension drains away, and they're left as restless as the rest of us.

"We can't stay here forever, Doctor," Jack insists after a moment.

"I don't intend for us to," he replies neatly, and I have to bite back an impatient snap. What _does _he intend, at this point? We must have been sitting here for at least five or ten minutes—my back and legs are starting to cramp from my half-crouched position. Just when I'm ready to complain outright that we're not going to get anything done this way, though, there's an animal shriek and a flapping noise from outside. I duck down, my eyelids stretching wide, but the Doctor only laughs, grabbing a tree root and crawling out of our little prison before pulling himself to his feet, his arms flung out wide.

"There you go, that's my man!"

I hurry after him, straightening up to see three of the great dragon beasts flapping above us. At the head of the nearest one is Mickey, grinning broadly, with Martha and a very nervous-looking Amy perched behind him. On the next is the younger Doctor and Donna, and the third contains Rose, her knuckles showing white as she grips the creature's neck.

"Everyone load up!" the older Doctor calls as the beasts touch down. As if in a prearranged movement, he and Rose move to Donna's dinosaur, leaving the third one open for the rest of us. Jack, scrambling out from under cover of the roots, deposits Rory with Mickey, Amy, and Martha, then beckons me towards the last creature as he hops on. I board behind him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and holding tight, and Sherlock and John slip on after us.

"That everyone?" Mickey questions over the steady flapping of massive, powerful wings.

"Should be!" Jack yells back. I try not to think about the fact that we're numbered one less than we were at the beginning—instead, I focus on clenching my legs together and holding on tight as our dinosaur bucks and shoots off of the ground. The forest floor flies out from underneath us, and moments later we're skimming the treetops. Jack cries out in triumph, and I can't resist holding back a small smile myself, though I'm internally a bit anxious. If the younger Doctor's group went through all the trouble to double back to the clearing and find the dinosaurs, then chances are that this fight—or, rather, one-sided attack—is nowhere near over. Just because we've managed to evade the oncoming troops for the time being doesn't mean that they've given up on us. This suspicion is confirmed an instant later when a huge roar shakes the branches below us, sending their wide jade-green leaves aquiver. I take a shaky breath, but it rushes out almost immediately as a huge creature parts the canopy in front of us like it's the surface of the ocean.

It's not dissimilar to our own beasts—in fact, I think it might be of the same species, but undeniably a more powerful variety. Its spikes, situated around the neck and spine and jutting out from the tail, are at least three times longer, an unnatural, eerie length that makes the dragon-like being look less majestic and more horrific. Not to mention the claws, massive and curving, extending from its legs that hang limply down from its glittering scaled belly. Its jaws part, and a sonic screech erupts through the air. Reflexively, I whip my hands up to shield my ears, wincing against the horrible sound that seems to cause my very vision to ripple. I teeter on the back of our suddenly small-seeming dragon, but manage to right myself with the help of my thigh muscles, gritting my teeth and glancing over my shoulder to make sure that the other riders are still alright. John's gone stark white, but they're still sitting up straight, not plummeting off. Deciding that they're alright for the time being, I whip my head back around to peer over Jack's shoulder and face the draconic creature that's rapidly approaching us. I can't discern a rider on its spiked back, so presumably the Master has had some way of training it—or maybe it's not even under his control, just a wild beast that happened to be provoked by the violence occurring around it.

In any case, it's bloody terrifying.

"Everyone divert!" Jack shouts, whipping our own mount around to the opposite direction. It shoots off, flapping its wings rapidly, and I can tell that it's just as scared as we are. The air seems to whip by, burning my skin, and I squeeze my eyes to slits, bracing myself against the front of warm air. We won't make it long like this, and we all know it—that thing pursuing us is much larger and probably much faster than our dragons, and our best hope at this chance is that we can get it to only attack one of us.

As selfish as it is, I'm praying that we won't be the group it chooses.

But my stomach sinks as we ride faster, the creature's back muscles flexing and pumping underneath me, because I can hear the shrieks and swoops behind us, I know that we're its selected target. Then my heart jumps rapidly as another thought comes to mind—_What if I'm one of the deaths? What if this is how it all ends for me? _I can't afford to think that way, though. I have to focus on keeping Sherlock and John alive, on keeping Jack as unharmed as is possible. So I shove aside my own fear, instead trying to think, if there's any way we can avoid this thing.

"Jack," I hiss into his ear, "try flying lower, weave in the tree branches… it might not be able to—"

My words are cut off as a massive tremor rocks the creature's back, and a gasp slips out of my throat. Behind me, John yelps, and the world seems to spin for a moment before I realize that we're descending, at a pace that can't possibly be controlled by Jack. We're hit again, rocking from side to side. I twist my head around, eyes popping as I see blood dripping in great waves off the claws of the enemy beast. A high, keening wail comes from the mouth of our own creature, and it begins to collapse in on itself as the ground comes ever closer, folding around its stomach—presumably the location of its injury. I latch onto Jack, my fingers digging into his shoulders, and can only hope that Sherlock and John are likewise holding onto each other. We might be able to survive the fall, but what then? The creature has us cornered. Unless we can find another root shelter—or perhaps run _extremely _fast—then this is the end for all of us, excepting Jack.

_Even Sherlock and John, the innocent ones…_

We collide with the ground with a massive _boom, _our dragon skidding along for several meters before slumping to a halt. Blood instantly begins to pool around its still sides, vivid crimson against the green-brown, such a deep puddle that I can see my own aggravated reflection.

"Everyone off!" Jack shouts, and I comply eagerly, glancing behind to make sure that the other two are alright. At first, I can't see anything wrong, but then I focus more clearly on Sherlock and I see it.

Protruding from his stomach is one of the massive tail-spikes of our own dinosaur creature.

My thoughts are cast into slow motion, and it seems to take ages for a single breath to escape my mouth. His eyes are wide, face shocked, as he slowly raises an ivory white hand to brush against the yellowish material of the spike. I distantly realize that it must have lashed forward when the beast hit the ground, gone right through him… shakily, he manages to reach behind his back and grip the bulk of the thick spike with his own two hands, wrenching sharply and pulling it out of his own torso with a fierce hiss. Blood immediately gushes from the wound, deep black against his long, dark grey coat, and I can't do anything but stare as his tall form tilts sideways, slipping off the dead dragon's back and to the ground in an almost gentle motion.

My ears are ringing, but even without the interfering noise, I have a feeling that the cluster of trees we've crashed into would be utterly silent. John's face is frozen as if carved out of ice as he jumps down, races over to the limp form of the detective and reaches out, cradling his head, taking his pulse with steady, methodical actions.

Then his voice cuts through the empty buzz in my head.

"He's alive."

I don't have any time to feel relieved, though, because just as my mouth opens, Jack's shout rips through the air. I whip around to see him staring into the trees, in which lurk a number of hulking silhouettes which have somehow gone unnoticed up till now. They look vaguely human, but I can't be sure, since they're mostly in the shadows. I instinctively reach for my gun, then realize that I don't have one, and end up backing up close to Jack. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that the figures are standing silently between the tree trunks all around us, and manage to catch a glimpse of glittering eyes, a few sharp-toothed snarls. Not human, then—some sort of bipedal monster? Probably not native to this planet, in any place. There's little doubt in my mind that they've been put here by the Master. John is still occupied with Sherlock, kneeling on the ground and trying to stop the blood flow, leaving Jack and I to defend them. There's nothing to defend _with, _though.

"What do we do?" I ask, my voice soft for no particular reason as I step around so that I'm standing back-t0-back with him.

Jack takes a deep breath, and I feel his shoulders shift. "Try to stay alive," he mutters grimly, and all I can do is nod.

As if his words were some sort of signal, the woods around us suddenly explode as the creatures move into the relative open. I can see them fully, now—and I can't believe I ever thought they might be human.

These things are _insects, _with large, many-faceted eyes, triangular heads, bizarre, carapace-like bodies, and the folding arms and legs of praying mantises. Somehow, the upper limbs have managed to wrap themselves around large metal guns, the design bizarre and alien. Their exoskeletons are smooth and green, and transparent wings flick on their backs. Their mouths are the worst, though—unnatural. Their teeth are like steak knives, twisting grotesquely against the otherwise bug-like shape of their jaws, pointing slightly outwards. They look like blades that have been shoved unnaturally into their mouths, crooked and cramped and absurdly _gigantic. _

"Shit," Jack breathes, a word which I can't help but believe carries the majority of my current attitude in it.

He barely has time to speak the single syllable, though, because then they're upon us, a snarling, screeching mass, and I don't even have time to think about the guns, because I'm too busy fending off their slavering jaws and flailing legs, lashing out blindly with my bare hands to knock away any extraterrestrial appendage that comes my way. I can feel Jack doing the same behind me, and his hisses of pain when something cuts through his offenses. A sharp sting arches down my cheek, and I whip my hand out, whacking away the sharp claw that inflicted it as blood shoots along my chin. We can't hold this up—in fact, it's a miracle we haven't been killed instantly. The ground by my feet is torn up as the first fired bullet rips into it, and I stumble backwards, crashing into Jack, who reaches behind himself to grip my elbows and keep me on my feet. The first shot is treated as some sort of cue, and all the other creatures explode into chaos, firing all the hell over the place. They seem to have horrible aim, though, and I manage to stay up, my closest encounter with a bullet being when it tears through my sleeve and embeds itself into a tree trunk a couple of feet away. Still, I'm getting worn out from frequent dodging, and I know that Sherlock won't last much longer. John is exposed, too, even with Jack and I in front of him.

Then a shout comes over the din, and I look up to see one of our own dinosaurs breaking through the treetops, cutting off the sunlight and casting us into darkness for a brief moment. Then it's touching down, crushing a few of the insect soldiers under its strong feet, and Jack is leaping up, grabbing my arm and pulling me after him. The only person on board seems to be the Doctor—the younger one, surprisingly—and his brown eyes are wild, his teeth gritted and his knuckles white where he grips the scales of the dragon.

"John and Sherlock," I cry, "we need to get them…"

"I know," the Doctor agrees, and he's just about to jump down when Jack suddenly shoots a hand out, holding him back.

John turns around, looks up to us. Then his gaze shifts and focuses on the nearest alien, its pincer-like hands shuffling around with the gears of its gun, the nose of which is undoubtedly aimed at Sherlock. The blonde man's eyes harden, and I don't even process what he's doing as he throws himself sideways, as the bullet fires, ripping through his jacket and shirt, and forces him violently to the ground.

"No!" I shout without thinking, a reflexive noise, but I know it's too late, and so does Jack—he kicks the sides of our dragon like a horse, and then it's rising up, and I barely have time to get a last glimpse of John and Sherlock sprawled on the ground beside each other like yin and yang, growing smaller as we ascend, blood from each of their fatal injuries pooling between them, merging and flooding the ground as the insect army closes in, cutting them off from my sight just as we break through the top of the trees.

"_Go back!_" the Doctor roars, twisting in Jack's grip, but the captain holds him in place, his own face hard, moisture glimmering in his eyes. "Go _back, _they weren't dead, we have to get them, we have—we have to…"

"Sherlock was alive!" I exclaim, equally horrified, but Jack just shakes his head.

"He never would have made it, Ianto. He didn't have a chance," is the whispered reply, and I see a tear inching down his cheek as he finally releases of the Doctor.

The Doctor himself is frozen, his eyes wide and blank. "Both of them," he breathes, "both of them… neither had any part in this, they were innocent…"

Jack doesn't reply, and I myself am stunned into silence.

John and Sherlock, like River, are gone.


	10. Rose Tyler

**A/N** _Here we encounter little hints of a particularly cracky femslash ship of mine..._

**Thanks to** _EmRose92, KDVaren, and BlueSkies23__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN**

Rose Tyler

Sun is rising, screams have gone,  
Too many have fallen, few still stand tall  
Is this the end of what we've begun  
Will we remember what we've done wrong?  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

When my Doctor, Jack, and Ianto return to the bunker that we've relocated to perhaps half an hour later, I can see just by their eyes that the lack of Sherlock and John isn't meaningless. It's all too clear that we've lost two more of our group, and I can't hold back the burning of my eyes. It's not that I had any particular attachment to the two men, myself, but they're so _innocent—_they didn't deserve any of this. From what the Doctor told me, they'd willingly come to Torchwood, unwilling to be left behind on such an adventure.

And now they're dead.

Their lives are cut off, never coming back, and it's so unfair that it gives me a throbbing headache, pulsing steadily against the inside of my skull, persistent and unshakable.

We all sit or stand silently in different positions around the bunker room, staring into space and not speaking a single word. The building is similar to the other one, but smaller. Which is all too appropriate, I recognize miserably, considering that our number has shrunken considerably since we relocated. River, Sherlock, and John—dead. And there will be more, too. I know there will be more, though how many is unclear. I can read it in the Doctor's expression—I try not to make my observations obvious, to keep him under his false impression that I can't see through him so horribly easily. But his facial muscles are tight, and not with the stress of death. He knows that another one is coming… probably soon, too.

Of course I've wondered if it might be me. But it seems unlikely, really. I just can't imagine myself dying any time soon, can't comprehend the thought that the Doctor would let me live with such knowledge. And, anyways, I've noticed his attitude around me—it's distant, distracted, and conveys all too clearly that I'm not the most important thing he has to concern himself with. I won't deny that I miss our old relationship desperately, back when we didn't keep any secrets, when we could be completely open with each other.

Those days are gone, though—they've been gone ever since the fateful Canary Wharf battle, and nothing in the universe will be able to bring them back. I'm okay with that, too. It's not that I don't miss the Doctor—God knows I do—but I don't want to hinder him. If he's moved on… well, I'll have to deal with it myself.

Not that I was always so compliant. In the beginning, in fact—when I was first separated from him—I spent most of my days sulking over the fact that he'd leave me behind, even if I never truly grew detached from him. He'd had old companions (I'd met Sarah Jane and K9), and he'd have new ones, too. I was just another in the long line. Rose Tyler, the blonde who'd fallen through realities. But I came to terms with the truth eventually, and I'm alright now, if a little saddened by his absence, and my absence in his mind. It's okay if he's done with me (and I can see that he absolutely _is _done with me, see it in his future self's eyes, the way he carefully avoids my gaze as if he doesn't want to have to relive the old memories that are probably just as painful for him as they are pleasant). I'll get fully over it eventually, even if I haven't yet.

I have to.

But for the moment, I have other things distracting me. Sherlock, John, and River's losses have left us all scattered and weak, and the battle clearly drained Rory, too. He's looking worse than ever, much as I hate to think about it. And I _do _hate to think about it. It's not just the fact that I can't stand another death, but also that he'll be leaving Amy behind. I like Amy, after all—despite her hotheadedness, I don't doubt in the least that the Scottish woman deserves her happy ending just like the rest of us do.

We've salvaged most of the food—Martha and Mickey made their way back to our old base after the battle, and reported that it was utterly wrecked, though they managed to pull together a few of the paper bags, none of which were more than singed. The older Doctor suggests that we try and eat, but none of us are up for it, and the sight of a bag of crisps makes me want to gag. I'm sickened from the violence, from the knowledge that we're all able to eat a little more, since three of our number are no longer necessary to feed.

It's horrible, all of it, and the stabbing ache of my head is increasing more and more. A few people, notably the older Doctor, Jack, and Mickey, try and get us to start planning again a couple of times, but they're faced with silence from the rest of us, and eventually accept that nothing else productive can be achieved today. The best bet for all of us is just to spend the night, hope that our hearts and minds are clearer in the morning.

I consider talking to the Doctor—my Doctor, donning his long overcoat, fingers running obsessively through the mess of his hair—more than once, but can never bring myself to. He just looks so _destroyed, _probably thinking that he's somehow responsible for the deaths of the past couple of hours. And confronting the fact that he'll have to see them play out all over again. Of course, in a way, that makes him lucky. For the rest of us, Sherlock and John are gone—permanently gone. I'm not going to say the same for River, who seemed to be at least as familiar with time travel as me—for all I know, she plays an all-too-significant role in my future as well as the younger Doctor's.

We peel off to our bunk beds one at a time. Any semblance of partnership has long since vanished; instead, everyone simply seems to slump onto the nearest mattress without so much as a 'goodnight' to the rest of us. After a while, Martha rises from her position next to Rory to switch off the light. I close my eyes as soon as she does so, leaning against the cement wall from where I sit on the ground and letting the cold seep through my jacket and shirt, freezing my muscles. The chill is relaxing, and I take a slow, steady breath. It's easy to pretend, this way—pretend that nothing happened between this night and the previous one. How long have we been on this insane planet now? Two days? Three? God, I can't even remember. It all feels like it happened so fast, yet at the same time, it's insane to think that I was on Earth have a week ago.

Light snoring begins to fill the air, but I'm far from tired. Images keep flashing through my mind—River's body slumping to the ground, the emptiness in the Doctor's eyes when he returned sans Sherlock and John, the blank horror on Ianto's face at the same time. And, for some odd reason, Amy—Amy Pond. She shines just as vividly as the rest of me, her ginger hair and sharp eyes bright in my mental image, though I can't remember what her significance might be. It's not like she's lost anyone particularly close to her today. Well, I assume so, though I don't know her true relationship with River. Maybe they were friends… even related, somehow. They did have similar eyes—that hazel-green, with amber hints, like a summer leaf with the first tinges of autumn spreading through its veins.

But the thought of Amy won't leave me alone. Something about her is… fascinating, though I can't possibly identify the source of such an emotion. She seems strong, but at the same time more exposed than any of us. I've seen her sobbing, when Rory was on the verge of death, and I can't deny that that's rooted a sort of fondness inside of me, a sweet sensation whenever she drifts through my thoughts. It's not that I feel _bad _for her, exactly—more like I want her to be happy, believe that she deserves happiness, almost more than any of the rest of us.

Maybe—and the realization comes to mind slowly at first, then all at once—maybe it's because she's just like me, really. At least as far as I can see. A young woman, barely more than a teenager, stolen away by the intriguingly alien man with the blue box. She probably hasn't lost as much as me, hasn't been through as much, but the fact remains that her enthusiasm matches my former excitement.

I don't want Amy to end up as destroyed as me.

That knowledge is vague, though, achy and distant. It strikes me suddenly that I'm drifting off where I sit, and I snap back into full wakefulness, forcing my cramped legs to lift me and carry me to the bed that I've been crouching next to. Exhaustion is suddenly feasting on my brain, forcing my eyes shut even before I've flopped down. I don't bother to curl under the sheets or even kick off my shoes. My hair and skin feel dirty, my several-day-old clothes itching against my skin, but the discomfort suddenly seems tiny, insignificant in the face of my massive, grief-induced sleepiness. I gratefully give into it, out like a light in a matter of seconds.

* * *

Amy's shriek is what wakes me.

I snap up immediately, banging my head on the bunk above me, and wince, rubbing at the injured spot as I squint into the darkness and try to orient myself. She's still crying out, whimpering, sobbing wails that cut through the air like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Amy?" I mumble vaguely, knowing that my voice is too silent for her to hear. An instant later, the light bulb flicks on, illuminating the room. I instantly catch sight of her blurred figure, kneeling on the ground with her face in her hands and strands of deep ginger hair wound up in her clenched fingers. Another wracking groan works its way out of her muffled mouth, and I realize suddenly that she's next to Rory's bed.

My stomach drops.

Without thinking, I'm out of bed, crouching beside her. Martha and the older Doctor are already there, hovering on either side, neither seeming to be certain what to do. I lock eyes with Martha, and she sighs softly, looking down in a broken way.

"Did he…?" I question, already knowing the answer.

A small dip of her chin. "The battle was too much exertion… all that moving around." Her large, dark eyes are swimming with tears, but she keeps her lips pressed tightly and firmly together, holding them in so as not to farther upset the already distraught Amy.

"I… I d-didn't… he wasn't supposed to _die!_" the Scotswoman screams, and she bangs her fist against the ground, crying out in pain when her hand collides with the cement. I don't think, but instead reach out, grasp her fingers before she does it again.

"Amy," I whisper intently, but she just glares up at me, her usually pretty face distorted by blotchy red tearstains. There's nothing sweet about her crying—it's messy, disgusting, but somehow all the more tragic for being so. She jerks her wrist away from me, and I let it go, holding my hand up to indicate that I have no intention to upset her. "I'm sorry?" I offer, but she just shakes her head furiously, pulling her knees up to her face and sobbing into them in a horrible, half-screaming, childish way.

"Damn it!" she yelled with frightening venom, "god _damn _it! Why did it have to be him? What did he do to deserve this—what did _I _do to deserve this? There was no reason for us to come! You—Doctor, you could have saved all of these stupid people yourself, you didn't have to drag us along with you! Then Rory would still be alive, _River _would still be alive! Are they not important to you? Are they disposable enough that you can just—just… just drag them along like this?"

I'm a bit injured by the fact that I'm clearly grouped in with the 'stupid people,' but I try not to let it show, instead jumping to the horror-stricken Doctor's defense. "He didn't have any _choice_," I insist. "Don't be hard on him, alright? Just… this is hard for him, too."

"How the _fuck _would you know? Do you know him as well as I do?" she demands, a fresh wave of tears streaking from her eyes as she glares at me through a terrible grimace. "Do you realize what a selfish bastard he is?"

"I know the Doctor very well," I reply evenly, fighting to keep my voice from shaking. The gravity of the situation has suddenly come crashing down at me all at once, and I can barely contain my own misery, the ache in my chest that yet another of our number has been stolen away already. "Probably even better than you. And one thing I'm _positive _about is that he's in no way selfish."

She scowls at me for another few seconds, then dissolves into a gale of groans and whimpers, covering her face with her hands and rocking back and forth. Martha silently pulls the sheet over Rory's still, shadowed face, and I move a hand to Amy's back, rubbing it gently as I turn to the other young woman, comforting her because no one else seems willing to do so.

"When did it happen?"

"About an hour ago," Martha answers, her face downcast. "I didn't want her to know until morning, but she woke up… it's almost like she detected it. We're going to have to… move the body out soon."

"Don't you _dare!_" Amy shrieks, lunging forward as if to physically stop Martha from taking Rory away, and I cinch my arms around her, trying to contain her struggles.

"He's gone, Amy," I breathe in her ear, "there's nothing you can do…"

"I don't _care!_" she cries, and suddenly turns around to face me, bringing our faces to an alarmingly small distance. I can see every teardrop on her cheeks, every grain of dark green or golden amber in her glimmering eyes. "I don't—do you have any idea? Any idea what it's like to—to lose someone—I'm not just going to give _up!_"

My throat seems to close up, because I know exactly what she means. I lost the Doctor, all the way back when he was his Ninth self as well as at Bad Wolf Bay, and I learned that letting go was the farthest thing from easy in existence—perhaps even impossible. I don't let Amy go, though. I'm lucky enough to have a stable mind right now, and I have to take responsibility, to stop her from hurting me or anyone else.

"I'm not asking you to give up," I promise. "I just want you to look at yourself. Look at him. The best thing you can do for him at this point is to let him be at peace. Alright? He's not gone, not really, he's just… somewhere else."

"Don't give me that _bullshit! _I know what _death _is, _Rose, _I'm not two years old!"

My name in her voice causes my heart to jolt oddly, and I realize that this is the first time she's spoken it aloud. I don't let my strange delight at such a matter slow me up, though—my internal agony is enough to drown it without effort. I open my mouth, entirely unsure what to say, when she suddenly falls onto me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her forehead pressed into my shoulder so that I shake with her sobs. I hesitate for a moment, unsure how to react, then give her a slightly anxious pat on the back, rocking her slowly back and forth. Everyone is awake by now—Jack, Ianto, Mickey, Donna, both Doctors. _No Sherlock, John, River, or Rory… _I pretend I don't see as Jack walks over to Martha, and they silently scoop Rory's body up together, moving towards the door, which the younger Doctor opens without a word. The grating noise of it opening is far too audible even over Amy's anguished sounds, but she only clings tighter, so that I'm practically suffocating.

Minutes creep by, feeling much longer than they probably are, and my shirt is absolutely soaked in Amy's tears by the time she finally pulls back, sucking in long, shaky breaths. "I have to go out," she chokes simply, rising to her shaky feet and stumbling towards the door. A chorus of protests rises up, but she just holds a hand out, shaking her head rapidly. "_Don't _try to stop me. I need to be alone."

"We can't risk you being alone, not at this point," Jack replies darkly, and Ianto gives a small nod from behind him.

"She won't be alone," my mouth is saying, and then I'm standing up as well. Jack opens his mouth to protest, but the Doctor shakes his head from across the room, and I find myself without any opposition. Taking it as indication to go on, I traipse out the heavy double doors after Amy, who opens one of them single-handedly. It's dark outside, still very early morning, and every still leaf of the surrounding trees is laden with moisture. Amy doesn't make any sort of effort to walk quietly, but simply slops along, her chest hitching up with dry sobs that are all too loud against the background of cricket-like chirps.

"It might be dangerous out here," I point out as soon as the building containing everyone else is lost among the tree trunks. "We probably shouldn't go too far away from—"

"_Don't _try to talk to me," she growls tearfully, and I bite back my intended reprimands, instead choosing to remain silent as we move on. It's oddly therapeutic, this slow walking, and I find myself relaxing after a while, exhaustion from my meager hours of sleep crashing over me. I bite my lip, guilty for being able to feel almost content when Amy is clearly so distressed. I make sure to keep my eyes on her mane of deep gingery hair, her slim figure illuminated by faintly glowing moss lining the many tree trunks. It's almost like some sort of fairyland out here, and it's hard to believe that so much blood was spilled on the same earth less than a day ago. Signs of the attack show rarely, just in the occasional snapped branch or scuffed-up dirt. And I try to ignore them when they do, not wanting to think about Sherlock and John and River right now.

Finally, when her sobs have died down, she sinks to the ground, her legs folding underneath her. I carefully approach her side, to see that she's staring down into a murky pool of greenish water, which shines faintly with lights from somewhere under the surface. Streams of bubbles flow to the top, and it takes me a moment to realize that there are tiny aquatic volcanoes lining the base of the pool in a sort of spiral, sending jets of fizzy hot water to the surface. It's beautiful, really, and emits a pleasantly faint gurgling sound. I lower myself down next to her, setting my hands on the ground behind me and crossing my legs. We sit like that for a while, in silence that might have been companionable if only her harsh breaths weren't so burdened with misery.

"I really am sorry," I murmur a while later, when my eyelids are starting to droop. "I have… I have lost people before. Never permanently, but… but I thought it was, at the time, I mean."

"The Doctor, right?" she questions bitterly.

I don't ask how she knows, just nod, my blonde hair brushing against my chin as I bend forward, gazing into the pool. My fingers dance along the edge of a rock embedded in the ground, brushing against the smooth, cool surface. "Yeah… twice. First he sent me and the TARDIS back in time and left himself to die…"

"He'd never do anything like that for me or Rory," is her immediate snort. Her voice breaks on his name, but I pretend not to notice, too busy with my quick objections.

"Don't say that! I never expected that he would for me until he did…"

"He's in love with you, though." She says it in an utterly matter-of-fact way, as though it's the most normal thing in the world. And my stomach twists in two different ways at once, as though I can't decide whether to be amazed or saddened by her words. I can't quite pinpoint what the reason for the second emotion would be—something about her matter-of-fact tone, as if she doesn't really care what my love life might concern.

"You really… you really think so?" I ask nervously, hating how girlish and shallow my voice sounds.

"'Course. Not always—I don't think he'll always be, I mean… mine isn't… but yours is. It's obvious, really… too bad that he's going to end up getting over you."

Now my emotions are flying every which way, and she's spinning them in all those directions, with her words. I end up chewing my lip anxiously, unsure how to respond. I'm just about to try and change the subject when she continues, her voice teary and passionate.

"Not that it's a bad thing, though… being in love just hurts you, it looks like… in the end."

"Don't say that," I implore instantly. "He was worth it, right? Rory was worth it?"

"He was worth his death… he wasn't worth me being alone," she murmurs. "He was amazing… of course he was… God, I loved him to death." I flinch at the expression, but she doesn't seem to mind. She's trailing her fingers through the water, now, creating little swirling patterns that intercept the miniature volcanoes' bubble streams. "But there could have been someone else. I know that I could have fallen in love with someone else instead. Someone stronger… and then they'd probably be alive now."

I make sure not to let it show how her chosen pronoun affects me—_they, _implying a man or a woman. _They. _I stop tracing patterns on the rock, instead flicking my fingers into the edge of the pool. The water is surprisingly warm, and feels absolutely _normal—_the most normal thing that I've encountered this whole crazy trip. I could easily feel the exact same thing by turning on the warm water tap back at home. It's comforting, and I let my whole hand slip under, not twirling it like Amy, but instead just letting it soak. I consider my words for almost a full minute before speaking, my voice soft, so that I can barely hear it over the far-too-merry bubbling. "It can happen more than once, though. You can fall in love again… you don't have to be alone."

"I can't move on." Her voice is cold, suddenly, and she whisks her fingers out of the pool, shaking them and casting little flecks of dark wetness over the grey stone at the edge of the water. "I… I just can't."

"You shouldn't talk like that. You never know for sure… that's the thing about love… it catches you unawares."

"I'm not talking about _love, _Rose," she sighs, and once again, her use of my name gives me light chills for some odd reason. "I'm talking about… dammit. I'm talking about the fact that Rory—that this was the worst time for him to leave me…" She chokes up again, and takes a series of long, shaky breaths, holding the heel of her hand to her forehead as if attempting to suppress a headache. "It's… it's more than just… our connection." A harsh laugh. "At some points, I wouldn't think that anything could be more than that. Boy, was I wrong… wrong about so many things."

Her words are starting to scare me for some reason, and I tilt my head, turning to look at her fully. "What's wrong? Tell me… please. I'll listen."

"You will," she agrees almost numbly, then shakes her head. "What the hell's the use in hiding it? I'm pregnant, Rose."

"_What?_" The word splits the air with an undisguised horror, and I see her flush, duck away from me once again. My head is reeling. _Pregnant. _How the hell can she be pregnant? My eyes instinctively fly to her stomach, but it's completely flat. "Are—are you sure?"

"Positive," she mumbles. "And now… she's not going to have a dad… going to be raised by a single parent, if she even _survives, _because her mum was too weak to keep her family safe…"

There are a thousand things I want to say at once, and I end up stammering. "She could still—she'll make it—it wasn't your fault… how do you… how do you know it's a girl, anyways?"

"I can tell," she replies simply, running a hand through her hair and dampening the glossy red strands. Her voice is evening out again, and I let a small amount of hope rise up in my chest, belief that perhaps I've managed to distract her from Rory for the time being. "I just… it's obvious, somehow. And I feel like there's something else I'm missing, but… whatever, that doesn't make any sense. Ignore me."

"I don't want to ignore you," I object. "That's the last thing I want to do right now."

"I'm _asking _you to ignore me. I don't… I don't want to be a distraction… don't tell anyone, please," she begs suddenly, her hazel eyes snapping up to meet mine. "Please don't tell anyone… none of them know, not even the Doctor. Rory didn't even know… he never knew he was going to be a father…" Tears spring up at the thought, and I reach out, gently wiping them off her cheeks.

"It's okay. I won't tell… we can just go back and act like nothing's wrong at all, alright? Well… nothing aside from… the obvious."

"The obvious," she repeats, sighing. "We should go back. There's no use staying here… like Jack said, it's dangerous. It was stupid to come out here in the first place… I can think clearer now, though, it's okay."

"Are you sure?" I ask, unconvinced of her ability to calm down so quickly. "It's fine, you know, if you want to stay out a little longer. I'll… I'll be happy to sit with you for as long as you need… you deserve the quiet. It's a bit insane back there, and I doubt anyone's going back to sleep at this point…"

"I would be if I were there," she sighs tiredly. "I just want to deal with this all in the morning… not right now. You're right, though, it probably will be noisy back there… God, I just want to sleep."

"Then sleep." I thoughtlessly adjust my position, then gesture to my lap, offering that she lie her head there. "I'm not tired… I can stay up and make sure nothing comes for us."

She considers me oddly for a second, then shrugs, giving into her exhaustion and curling up, settling her head onto my lap so that her hair spills onto the ground around my legs. "Thanks, I guess," she murmurs, clearly too exhausted to object. She turns on her side, then lets her eyes drift shut. I can feel her breaths almost immediately turn long and steady, and I let out an exhalation of my own, tipping back and leaning against the trunk of a tree immediately behind us. It's unexpectedly comfortable to feel her heartbeat as she slips away to sleep, and, despite everything that's falling apart in both of our worlds, with the cricket-like chirping, the burble of water, and the thrum of her heartbeat, I feel more at peace than I have ever since before Bad Wolf Bay.


	11. The Master

**A/N** _I suppose we can call this the climax. Only one more chapter after this! The ships and character deaths are both just piling in now. _

**Thanks to** _KDVaren (I think?), Exact Estimate, and Guest__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

The Master

When we start killing, it's all coming down right now  
From the nightmare we've created, I want to be awakened somehow  
When we start killing, it all will be falling down  
From the hell that we're in, all we are is faded away  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

"I want to do it today," Jim muses softly.

I glance over at him, propped up against a mound of pillows on the other side of the bed. His fingertips are pressed contemplatively to his lips, his wide, dark eyes gazing in the direction of the blank wall. Despite the surprise that his words spark inside of me, I don't dare to object to his sudden decision—I've learned what happens when I go against his wishes. Or even so much as question them, remember it in the twinges of the bruises layering my skin and a particularly deep cut that swells the skin under my left eye, half-obscuring my vision. They've built up over the last few days—the injuries—as I've tried harder and harder to hold the human psychopath back, just in the gentlest sense—to prevent him from killing the Doctor. I couldn't care less if the rest of his pathetic _companions _are stripped limb from limb, but I won't let the Doctor die, especially by a hand other than my own.

"Today," I repeat, straightening up slightly from my slumped position against the wooden headboard. His eyebrows twitch in irritation, but he doesn't look at me, just lets out a soft, poison reprimand with his gaze still directed firmly at the wall.

"I don't like _repeating _myself, Harry."

That's what he calls me, what he's determined to call me. _Harry Saxon. _The false identity, the human Prime Minister who was so horribly tedious to maintain. I left Harry Saxon behind ages ago, but he still won't refer to me as _Master—_doesn't want to acknowledge me as someone superior to himself. And I'm _not, _even though I once thought so. After all, I recruited him, not the other way around—recruited the young, eager-eyed man who had such a delicious appetite for blood.

I never imagined that he'd be so damn _ambitious, _that he'd decide I wasn't a necessary component in the Earth-destroying scheme after all, that he'd manage to take over the whole plan so thoroughly… he only keeps me alive because he doesn't know how to kill me, and we're both perfectly aware of that, though he claims that my existence is for his 'recreational purposes.' That's who he is, really—afraid to admit a weakness.

I hate him.

Hate him enough for a bitter surge to crackle through my stomach every time I see his face, hear his too-high Irish voice, feel his hands on my shoulders, neck, chest. It hasn't always been like this—no, I used to _adore _him, every aspect of him, but not anymore. Now I've never wanted to kill someone more, not even the Doctor.

Because I don't _want _the Doctor dead, not really. He's an adversary, but a _good _one, powerful and challenging. Not to mention that I still remember him from the Academy, quiet, thoughtful Theta Sigma, and I don't really want to lose him, not really. The Doctor is the only other Time Lord out there, and I'm not so ready to be rid of him. Not easy to be alone, as I've rendered him time after time.

Jim, on the other hand, just _revolts _me with his very presence. As _evil _as some might view me (and I know the Doctor's used that word to his companions and allies when I come into the picture, of course he has), I'm nothing compared to him—nothing. _Humans—_humans are pathetic, but I don't have a feud with every species, only those who get in my way. I detest humanity, whereas Jim Moriarty is set against life itself, drawls that it's 'boring' and 'dull,' insists that the best way to spend his existence is in ruining others'.

And now, because of me, he knows that there are worlds more of creatures who he can snuff out. I regret if, of course I regret it. I don't _want _Jim released on the galaxy, but there's nothing I can do about it—nothing. I've come to terms with that, decided that I'll just have to find a way to die amidst the destruction of the planet. It's not like he'll care—it's not like _anyone _will care. Me, I'll be happy. Being gone will be nice.

And it's beginning to look like I might get that opportunity sooner than I expected.

"Of course not," I murmur, looking away. "How soon, then? He'll be expecting it."

_He _is the Doctor, the older Doctor, and that's something that neither of us have to acknowledge. There's only one _him _now. There were two, before Holmes was killed, but now the only one of importance is the other Time Lord. _Mine. _That's how I think of him, how Jim thinks of him, too. Sherlock was _his, _the Doctor is _mine. _Ours to admire from a distance, ours to secretly crave, ours to murder in the most creative of ways.

I don't want to kill the Doctor, have no intention to, but Jim doesn't need to know that.

"He expected the last one," Jim points out. "Didn't seem to care as his lovely girlfriend was _disemboweled… _as well as the others. We have to make sure to get them all, this time… leave that spiky-haired madman alone, without even the promise of his own future… lovely." He's silent for a long moment, then slips out of the bed. I avert my eyes from his nudity as he pulls on a soft silken robe hanging on the bedpost, jaws stretching in a luxurious yawn. It's not as if I don't his body often enough—too much—but I can't afford to be distracted right now, by the unfairly stunning physique of the man I hate so much. "You can take care of _him, _of course, I wouldn't dare to infringe on your claim… though I expect you'll allow me the rest… fair exchange."

I nod quickly, meeting his eyes only for a very brief second. "Of course." I half-choke on the horribly submissive tone of my own voice. This isn't the position I'm meant to be in, this awful, nervous state of surrender. I don't belong here, never have.

"Wonderful. Get dressed and eat something, we'll leave in an hour." He departs the room, heading into the high-ceilinged hallway of the mansion that we've been sharing ever since my resurrection, with the brief exception of the day I spent on the planet containing the Doctor… the day I spent watching him. I knew it was a stupid thing to do, but I couldn't stop myself from it, just for those few hours, staying hidden in the trees and wondering whether or not he'd truly make it through this. Of course, I had to leave as soon as his ridiculous gadget detected me unexpectedly… it was worth it, though. Worth it to see him smile…

_Smile at Rose… _

But still, smile through his stress, an expression I've never been able to see directed towards me, that I never _will _be able to, since he hates me so much, hates me as much as I hate Jim, surely…

I manage to savor my isolation for a total of one full minute before the drums begin to grow louder, thumping and thumping incessantly against my skull. A throbbing ache begins to develop just above my eye, under the cut, and I grip one of the thick pillows strewn excessively over the king-size mattress, pressing it to my forehead and biting into the fabric, trying to hold back the pain of the repetitive beats.

_One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One two three four, one two three four, one two three four one two three four onetwothreefouronetwothreefo ur—_

I rip the pillow away with a faint snarl, kicking away the sheets and stepping out of the bed. Unlike Jim, I have boxer shorts on, though nothing else. I quickly change this, pulling a dark sweater and sweatpants out of the drawer of a dresser propped against the wall, where they're crumpled as an afterthought, an alternative to being thrown on the floor. The closet, massive and walk-in though it may be, is taken up by Jim's fantastically expensive suits, primarily Westwood. I don't much mind the fact that my wear is so much less extravagant than his—after all, I've grown used to lurking in the shadows while he takes the spotlight. It only makes sense that my clothes should reflect such a position.

Wandering into the hallway, I make sure to walk in a loud, irregular beat, the floor tiles cold against my bare feet, to ward off the tauntingly rhythmic grumble of the drums. He's seated at the granite-topped kitchen island, newspaper spread out in front of him and feet swinging childishly as he nibbles contemplatively on the end of a banana taken from the fruit bowl sitting next to him. Upon closer inspection, he appears to be examining the obituary, periodically outlining names in strawberry juice from a handful that sit in a pile next to him. It's almost fascinating to watch—he'll set aside the banana for a moment, nip the end off of a strawberry, and carefully trace over the small print with pale pinkish liquid before tossing the discarded fruit carelessly over his shoulder, where it lands neatly in the sink.

"Your work?" I question, noting that all of the highlighted names seem to have died of jarringly unnatural causes.

"But of course." He grins at me, a shark-like expression that fills his eyes with dark delight. "Here's a particular favorite of mine… take a look." He holds the paper up to me, his thumbnail indicating a name excessively dribbled in juice. _Steve Strider. _The image next to it is grainy and monochromatic, seeming to be a young, light-haired man with dark sunglasses and a slight grin. Its caption discloses nothing, and I raise my eyebrows, beckoning elaboration.

"The two things that scared him most in the world were dogs and heights. Mundane but effective. As a brief summary, a rabid puppy chased him up to the eighth floor of his office building, and he had nowhere to go but out the window. The dog was taken away immediately after, of course, cleaned up… they all think it's a suicide, now."

"Vulgar," I comment, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. "And neat, if the evidence of the dog was truly erased… personal or client?"

"Personal," he replies carelessly, throwing the paper aside and taking a large bite of the banana, speaking through the mouthful. "Bumped into me rather heavily in the street a few weeks ago… didn't even apologize. I went to extra measures to ensure that his demise was a nicely tailored one."

"Clearly."

"Well, aren't you just Mr. Strong and Silent today?" he whines, grinding the banana peel under his fist. "I'm used to having someone to _talk to, _Harry, and here you are acting like all the other useless grunts that I end up hiring."

_You didn't hire me. _"There's a lot to think about," I point out simply, shrugging. "Deaths to plan."

"You say that like it's a _chore. _Don't overthink them… you'll enjoy them plenty once it's time. I'm considering unleashing that little gaggle of Angels… the ones we lifted out from Wester Drumlins? It should be as easy as placing something in their line of vision to unfreeze them… and if I'm recalling correctly, Ms. Pond seems to have a particular… _disliking _of them. It can't hurt to rub a little more salt in her wounds…"

"Another round of the insectoids would probably work nicely for Harkness and Jones, too," I offer.

"Yes, yes, _good. _Take them out with a bang… absolutely. The captain can watch the tea boy die… but if he really is _immortal, _we'll have to take him captive. Trap him in some sort of loop…" He nods to himself, chin propped on his hand. "Excellent. Well, we have fifty-three minutes. Harry, dear, why don't you fetch a pen and some paper? I do believe that there's a measure of planning in our near futures."

I don't dare to object to his order.

* * *

Fifty-three minutes later, the two of us are in the younger Doctor's stolen TARDIS, me lounging against the console and him pacing excitedly around it. The aliens that we've selected specifically for the purposes of killing each of the Doctor's current companions in the most agonizing way possible are arranged on a teleportation pad back at the mansion, in the basement, as well as one of Jim's agents, who's arranged to let them go in a matter of minutes.

"Make sure to land it _right _outside their little _base,_" he reminds me, gripping the railing of the console bay and leaning back and forth, stretching his arms impatiently as he bounces on his heels. I obey, flicking the levers of the time machine to fix us on the appropriate location, then finally flipping the switch to set us on our journey. Its hidden gears begin to lurch, and Jim whoops delightedly as the weary groan of the machine's engines fill the air. He spins around, prances over to me, pulls my head down and gives me a messy, careless kiss that I can't help but return. His fingers wind into my hair, prolonging it for a more extensive number of seconds than I expected, then he rips away all at once.

He's practically _high, _high on the death, high on the killing that's about to begin. Joyous… in his element.

_What the hell went wrong with you, Jim? _

I might have thought myself to be like that, once—ruthless, delightfully coldhearted, but I've learned better. All it was took was a true psychopath to show that the only thing fueling me was resentment. _Only ever resentment. _I wonder if anyone else could ever realize, like I have, just how little cruelty my intentions truly possess.

_I wonder if the Doctor would realize. _

It's not that I'm opposed to killing, of course not. But that doesn't mean I _like _it. I do it when necessary, not for fun… and it never excites me like it does Jim.

He almost scares me.

Almost.

The TARDIS's flight noises die down, and he sprints over to the door, throwing it open and spinning around with a wide beam. Warm mist wreathes around him, casting odd shadows over his face, and it's dark, eerie yet somehow enticing. "Shall we?" he purrs, gesturing out. "Kick-start this battle… might as well begin it with a bit of _drama… _I'm sure that _he'll _be all too prepared."

I nod. "Let's go."

True to my word, I parked the TARDIS relatively near the bunker where the two Doctors, Amy, Rose, Mickey, Martha, Donna, Jack, and Ianto have taken up residence, and it only takes a few minutes to get there. Those minutes are tedious, though, especially trying to keep up with Jim's long, overeager stride. The heat presses down on my thick, dark clothing as the worn blue of the TARDIS melts away into the dark green, dew-coated trees. Unfamiliar bird calls yelp and trill through the canopy arching above us, and every once in a while I half-trip over the cracked exoskeleton of a dead insect creature from our army. I scowl in unhidden disgust. It seems that the soldiers simply peeled off from one another after their work was done, going on to wander away the brief remainders of their alarmingly short lifespans.

"How much farther?" Jim demands about two minutes in.

"Practically nothing," I respond patiently. "Just up here, over this rise…"

He nods, his smile dying away for the first time to make way for an alarmingly clear expression. It's neutral, for the most part, but seems to carry such _tension, _as though he's straining against himself from the inside, ready to explode in bloodthirstiness at any moment, practically twitching with energy.

_It's almost time. _

Almost time for it to begin. And I suddenly realize, out of nowhere, that I don't have a _plan—_can't possibly think of a way for the Doctor to survive. I've held it in my mind as a sort of abstract goal that he'll be able to make it out of the battle alive, but it's strikingly obvious to me now, with the inevitable battle moments away, that he's going to want to stay, to help his companions. And I've got no intention of keeping them from their deaths—they're all going to be slaughtered, Amy and Rose, Mickey and Martha, Ianto and Donna. I don't care about them. Hell, I'll be _happy _to see Martha go—she was an annoying bitch if there ever was one.

But the Doctor…

It would be easier if he had more regenerations left; then there might be a way to put things off. But he's on his Eleventh, I know that, and I'd only have to kill him three times to end it permanently. _Easy, _Jim would say, and he'd be right. Easy, indeed. Far too easy for me to be able to get away with not doing it.

There's nothing to put off, though, because now it's happening, now we're cresting over the hill and there they are, all standing up outside the bunker. It's raining—not properly, just a light drizzle that leaks through the treetops, staining everything foggily grey. The line goes from one Doctor to another—the Tenth, Rose, Amy, Donna, Martha, Mickey, Ianto, Jack, the Eleventh—and they're all watching coldly, weaponless, like sculptures with rain dripping down their hair and faces.

"Here we are!" Jim crows, clapping his hands. The piercing sound rings through the glade powerfully. "A reunion, from the perspective of one…" He tilts his head in the direction of the elder Doctor. "And you know _just _what's about to happen, don't you, Doc?"

"I do," he replies evenly. I finally creep fully over the ridge, taking up my place next to Jim and pretending that I can't feel the younger Doctor's eyes piercing me. The rain runs down the back of my sweater, chilling me, but it's a welcome relief from the pressing heat that the forest otherwise produces.

"It's almost done for you… and you don't get a cheat this time, don't get a replay. Any goodbyes you want to make?"

Rather than going along with Jim's offer, the Doctor's eyes find me, and I meet them before I can stop myself. They're dark, sad, and I can see that clearly even with several yards of leafy grass and a slight hill separating us. He looks on the verge of saying something, but remains silent for several long seconds, until Jim finally speaks up again.

"I'll go out on a limb and assume that you know exactly what Mr. Saxon and I are here for," the Irish man continues, leaning back against a tree and tilting his head appraisingly. "Unfortunately, you're all going to _die. _Well, except for little Doctor and Captain Harkness, but they're good as killed… the _point, _I believe, is that we're going to _win. _We already have won, to some extent, and any effort you make to resist is truly just humorous at this point… feel free to try, though… that will be quite entertaining. Then again, it certainly doesn't look like you intend to fight back… where are your _dinos, _hm? Your mythical dragon beasts?"

"There doesn't have to be a battle today," the older Doctor calls, his voice sounding desperate.

"Oh, but you already know there will be… of course you do."

My thoughts are taking me down a different track, though, one that I barely dare to let myself believe. The Doctor _does _know what's going to happen—every moment of it. And he's chosen not to bring the dragons that we know them to possess. He's standing there, weaponless… they all are.

What if nobody _does _die today? What if Jim made some mistake, some vital error, and they're going to make it out alive…?

I can't pretend to be _happy _about such a possibility, but I also can't claim to be firmly against it. After all, if the companions survive, that must mean that the Doctor survives, and that _he's _happy,too. A positive emotional state is disposable to some extent, so long as he's alive, so long as he'll keep on living into the indefinite future. Still, there's no denying that a smiling Doctor will always be superior to a frowning one, yet I don't allow myself to fully envision the scenario of a complete victory on his side. It's unfathomable, really. Distant.

"Yes," the Doctor voices, steadily agreeing with Jim. "I do."

Jim's bottom lip protrudes and he gives a small nod, raising his eyebrows and loping over to stand closer to me. "Alright, then. So be it. We have five minutes before they arrive… all of them, handpicked to frighten and torment each of you… I do like to personalize my work. Wrap it with a bow in your favorite color… no need to _wait, _though. Personal murders are fun, if tedious, and I don't mind getting my hands dirty so long as no effort is needed… you're all quite _literally_ lined up in front of me, so I think I'll help myself…"

"No," the Doctor cries immediately, his voice desperate, "don't hurt them—_don't hurt him—_"

_Him?_

Then I feel it, a sharp, sudden, aching pain at the base of my ribcage, which seems to force all my breath out and once, leaving me winded and confused. My eyes are still locked with the Doctor's, and everything flashes abnormally bright before suddenly beginning to dim. The painful point jerks slightly, and my legs are suddenly far too shaky to hold me properly. Eyes wide in shock and confusion, I stumble forward a half-step before they fold under me, and I slump to my knees, hands braced against the grass. The green turf ripples before my eyes, and I cough, a harsh, hacking noise that throws red into the tapestry of greyish plants.

_Damn, that hurts. _

"There's a formality taken out of the way." Jim's voice seems to come from a long ways away, the tone clipped and careless. "He _was _awfully annoying… a nice shag, though, I've got to say… I know that quite well at this point… jealous?"

I can't help but wonder if he's talking to the Doctor, and the fact that I'm hoping he is feels so _pathetic, _it disgusts me. How can I possibly care at this point—possibly care whether or not the Doctor has some part of himself remaining that still cares about me like he did back at the Academy?

"Well, I suppose I'm out of here." Jim's voice is steadier this time, or at least my hearing of it, and I take a shallow breath, things slowly coming back into focus. I've got a couple of minutes left in me. I'm not going to be weak, not going to pass out before my heart stops beating. If I'm going to be quite literally stabbed in the back by the ally who I hate with all my heart, that still doesn't mean I have to die in the most cowardly, low way possible.

His footsteps seem to shake the ground, the ground that I find myself slipping onto, unable to remain in my crouched position any longer. Feeling horribly exposed, I manage to turn onto my side, trying to ignore the blood staining the grass, which seems to shine horribly red out of the corner of my eye.

Then there are hands on my shoulders, pulling me up, cradling my head. "Master…" The voice is the Doctor's, the younger Doctor's, soft and grief-stricken, and I can't help but remember the _Valiant_, when Lucy shot me, when I let him down for the first time.

I could choose to regenerate, this time around.

"Master," he whispers again, "Koschei." I frown slightly in confusion, swallowing bloody bile that I can feel rising in the back of my throat. It's been countless years since I've heard him speak my true name. "Don't do this to me… you can't do this to me again… please."

"He… he stabbed me," I mumble. I blink, bringing the Doctor's face into focus above me. His eyes are wide, and I think I can see tears welling up in them… but focusing is too much stress, and I let it go, my head supported only by his hand.

"Yes… he did… I'm sorry…"

"Don't be," I get out thickly. "You… you have to get away, though…" That's the most vivid thought in my mind, burning above the others. "Before… the army comes. You have to go to Earth…" Damn, it hurts to talk. I force myself to, anyways, getting the words out one after another. They're vital. "The screwdriver, in… in my pocket… your TARDIS made it, so… you can use it to unlock it, you can get back to Earth… he'll be at the base, the underground base, to—to watch the show... find a way to stop him…"

"Why are you _telling _me this?" the Doctor asks wildly. "Just… relax, let yourself regenerate, alright? We need your help. We can do this together. I won't let you leave again, do you understand…? I won't let you."

It's like the other have all faded away, like we're the only ones here. The damp grass scratches slightly against my back, and the stab wound still hurts like hell, but his voice seems to erase the discomfort and pain, painting an image before me, an image of _happiness, _of traveling with him in the TARDIS and discarding all my mistakes, leaving them behind me… being with him, being with the Doctor… I could do that. It's an opportunity, right in front of me, just waiting for me to seize it.

_Regenerate. _That's all I have to do.

"…No," I get out, shaking my head firmly. "Absolutely… absolutely not…"

"_Please._"

"You think it'd be good for you, but you're wrong," I cough. "We both know that you… would be held back… your companions need you, Doctor, your future needs you… and I'm not with _him, _am I? We can't disrupt the timeline. That girl, that… Amy… she still needs her time. And her husband… not to mention… _River Song…_" I can't resist snarling the name, despising the fact that I have to ruin this moment between us with her awful essence. "You can't just… abandon your stupid damn companions. They need you… more than I do."

"Then they can come with," he insists desperately, tears beginning to make their way down his flushed cheeks. "They can…"

"They'd try to kill me in my sleep," I scoff with a trace of humor that doesn't carry over to him. He's clenching his teeth, trying to hold in sobs, and I wonder vaguely why it always affects him so much, when I leave like this… why does he care? Why should he care? "No, I… I want to… stay dead this time… the drumming…"

And yet, somehow, inexplicably, the drums are absolutely silent right now. I didn't realize it before, couldn't tell over the thunder of blood in my ears, but it's true… the rhythm has vanished completely, as though gazing into the Doctor's eyes somehow drowned it out… my mouth moves, wanting to say something, convey my amazed shock, but I come up with nothing. Everything's starting to ring, to fade.

"It's too much…" I rasp. "All of it…"

"I can fix it… just come back. Please, _please _come back," he begs desperately, "don't be _selfish, _you idiot, I'll do anything…"

"Why?" I can't summon the strength needed to voice more than one syllable, and I have to force myself not to let my eyes close.

"Because…" His hands are on my back and shoulders, pulling me up, pressing my forehead to his shoulder and holding me there, so that I can feel the pump of his hearts through his skin and suit. His chin is on top of my head, and I can feel his throat vibrate as he whispers the answer softly, so that none of the others can possibly hear.

"I love you. Don't leave me."

"Why the hell should you… love me…?" I choke on my laughter, hacking against him, but he doesn't draw away, just holds me tighter, his frame shaking slightly. "You hate me… you've… been my enemy for… _centuries…_"

"We were friends, first… the Academy… you have to remember that we were friends… those were the best years of my life, please let me have them back… _please…_" But he knows at this point that his efforts are useless, and so do I.

"They'll never come back… you need to learn to… deal with that…" My eyes are squeezed shut against his shoulder, so I'm already blind, but my other senses seem to tilt and fold in on themselves, as a massive drowsiness suddenly sets over me like a stifling blanket. I trail off, feel myself slipping away, and suddenly he's gripping my arms, speaking frantically in my ear, a last, desperate attempt.

"Please—_please…_"

I don't listen, though. I made my decision ages ago.

I want it to be over.

"Doctor…"

"Master."

My voice is practically ghostly, a breath with no real substance, but he's close enough that I know he hears my next words, the vital words, before I finally let go and fall away from it all.

"I… love you too… Theta."


	12. The Tenth Doctor

**A/N** _Last chapter! I am working on a sequel to this story, which will incorporate Supernatural, since Superwholock(wood?) is always lovely. If you'd like to put me on Author Alert, I'll most likely start posting that in the next couple of weeks.__  
_

**Thanks to** _EmRose92__  
_

**Disclaimer** _I don't own Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood or any associated characters, events, etc. _

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

The Tenth Doctor

When we start killing  
When we start killing  
When we start killing  
~ "The Howling," Within Temptation

**xxx**

For what seems to be a very, very long time, I don't move at all, just sit there, breathing in his scent and holding on as tightly to his stiff body as I possibly can, as if doing so will somehow imprison his soul within it, though I know perfectly well that it's already escaped. It shouldn't hurt as bad as it does—I should have been expecting it, and I _was _expecting it, and yet my chest still hurts with the knowledge that I've lost him yet again. I always manage to, in the end—can never hold onto what's most important to me.

And, of course, there are his last words, those horrible, absolutely unfair last words that are almost certainly the final syllables I'll ever hear in his voice…

_Why…? _

But I can't let my emotions consume me completely right now. I force myself to ignore them, to internally run and hide, forcing thoughts to dash back and forth across my mind too swiftly for me to really process any of them. I don't let go of him, even as I try to forget the reason for the tears staining my cheeks, and all I know for certain is that I want to be able to _sleep _right now, to curl up next to his body and let it all drift away, just for a few hours.

But there are people depending me. Unlike on the _Valiant, _everything isn't over, even though it may feel like that. I have to stand up, to keep fighting, before everything else slips out of my fingers.

And I can't just give up—that might be the most unfair part of this whole thing. I'm _exhausted, _and the others are strong, stronger than I give them credit for. I could almost certainly afford to just let it go, myself, hope that they'll get themselves out of all this. But I _know _I survive it, and that's so damn unfair. It's all _his_ fault—all his fault that we're here in the first place, that we weren't just destroyed in a relatively painless explosion back at Torchwood, leaving _him _alive…

Leaving the rest of humanity doomed.

No, he's made the right decision, and I know that, deep down. That doesn't mean I can't hate it, though. And what makes it even worse is that I know I _will _be him; I'll have to be the one to land the TARDIS in the Hub, to deal with my own hatred, to watch them all die again, River and Rory, Sherlock and John… _the Master… _

The thoughts are beginning to build a sort of wall around me, steeling myself against all external forces. My hearts are still destroyed and aching, but my mind is becoming clearer by the second, and I suddenly know exactly what I have to do. Stop the attack on Earth. Save the humans once again.

And to do that, I have to kill Moriarty.

I _want _to kill Moriarty.

_Fire and ice and rage…_

I stand, letting him slip from my arms, but making sure to slip my hand into the pouch of his dark sweater and pull out his screwdriver, which I pocket, nestling it next to my own sonic. Rising up to my full height, I take a deep breath of warm, moist air, laced with cool flecks of rain that dot my suit with dark speckles, then briefly glance back at the others. They're all watching with wide eyes, Jack with his arm around Ianto's waist, and Martha's eyes wide and apologetic. There's a single figure who doesn't meet my stare, though—the Doctor, the later version of me, whose gaze is cast towards the ground.

Rose is the one who takes my full attention, though. Her lips are parted, her brows creased, and I can tell that she's _hurt, _her feelings brutally injured. Maybe he and I hadn't been speaking as quietly as I thought, or perhaps our words were obvious. In any case, the blonde woman who traveled with me for years knows perfectly well what happened in the exchange between me and the man who had been my closest friend for centuries.

_I'm sorry, Rose… _

I lock eyes with her, trying to communicate my apologies, apologies that I can't be to her what she wants me to. She stares back evenly for a long, unbroken second, then moves ever so slightly to the side, reaching out and wrapping her fingers around a surprised-looking Amy's wrist. Her expression is almost defiant, and though I can't deny that I'm a bit surprised, I feel close to smiling.

_Of course. Perfect. _

I don't look in the direction of Mickey or Donna, not wanting to consider what they might think of me at this point, after seeing me cry with our worst enemy in my arms. The tears are drying now, and I swallow roughly, lowering my head down as I turn once again to face the forest, not allowing myself to glance down at the Master's body. I do catch an inevitable glimpse, though, and it helps—rage begins to build up in my chest again, strong and hot, and I know with calm, determined clarity what I have to do next.

"We're going to the TARDIS," I say, the words dropping into the rainy air. They're met with nothing but the sound of several sets of footsteps following my own as I start through the trees, taking even, measured paces, standing perfectly straight with my arms stiff at my sides. It takes a shorter time than I would have expected to make my way back to the police box, considering how far away it probably is. After a number of minutes, we pass the wreckage of our original base, and I don't dare to look any closer, for fear that I'll see River's remains, if they're even recognizable at this point among the scattered corpses of confused aliens who presumably killed each other. I mourn the aliens, too—poor, probably peaceful creatures controlled by the Earth's two foremost psychopaths… it wasn't their fault that they caused so much destruction.

Of course, I'm going to be killing them now, killing them all. The idea nauseates me, but I toss aside the feeling, reminding myself that it's for the greater good, that there are nearly seven billion humans on Earth and no more than five hundred of the aliens harnessed by Moriarty. I know that, if only my mind was clearer, I would almost definitely be absolutely opposed to a method of such blanket destruction, yet I can't bring myself to care, not really. I'm _angry, _angry as hell, and I'm ready to pay Moriarty back in the most thorough way possible for River's death, for Rory and Sherlock and John's death.

_For the Master's death. _

Finally, the TARDIS looms out of the trees, her warm blue bulk barely stained by dirt and rain. It's comforting to be greeted by such a familiar sight, even if it's admittedly not quite the same shade as the one I know. Her azure shade is darker, more vibrant, seeming to almost glow through her wet green surroundings. I'm the first one to reach her, brushing my fingers gratefully along her surprisingly dry wood. I can practically hear a welcoming rumble, and I push the door open with a relieved sigh. The console bay is still unfamiliar, all wide swoops and golden curves, but I don't care, because it's still the TARDIS, it's still my TARDIS.

"Hello, sexy," I breathe softly, hurrying up to the console and letting my hand ghost along the edge of it. "Ready for another ride?"

The others file in behind me, and I shut my mouth quickly, trying to push aside the gentle fondness created by the TARDIS's presence. I can't afford any positive emotions right now. I have to stay cold, have to stay angry. And doing such, whether it be a good or a bad thing, isn't difficult whatsoever. I effortlessly shove any hints of happiness into the pit of my stomach, letting grief crash over me and envelop me fully.

And I welcome it. Because with grief comes anger, and anger fuels revenge.

"Where are we headed?" Jack asks quietly, the first of them to speak up since Moriarty inflicted the stab wound (the very thought causes a furious jerk of my chest, as though his knife had sunk through my ribs and not the Master's).

"The base," I reply monotonously. "Underground, where they keep all the aliens. The one where we first met Sherlock and John."

It's a cruel topic to bring up, and I could just have easily had gone with 'where we rescued Mickey and Martha,' but I hardly care whether the others are unhappy right now. In fact, I practically want them to be, want them to feel some measure of the absolute agony that's alight inside of me right now.

"…Right," Jack agrees, his jaw clenched, and he pulls Ianto a little closer. I can't help but notice how clingy he suddenly seems to be to his boyfriend, and I unwillingly recognize the action as a sign that he doesn't infringe to interfere with me—I can still remember his words in the TARDIS perfectly well, when we first landed here: _The point is that I'm just as in love with you now as I was with your last incarnation. _And what he's doing now is backing down—he knows that the Master and I were more than friends, just in those last few minutes, and he's respecting it.

_Not like it'll have any effect at this point… after all, he's dead, isn't he? He's really, truly, permanently dead, and I just have to cope with that, have to face the truth…_

I don't so much face the truth as grab it by the shoulders and collide with it as painfully as possible, so that my anger rages up even more fiercely, at a rather dangerous level. I keep it simmering, though, as I flip a number of switches and levers, preparing the TARDIS for flight but not starting it on its journey. I'm not aimed for the underground base, though, not yet—I'm set for Torchwood.

"We'll need your bombs," I explain to Jack. "I'm sure Torchwood has plenty, and we're going to have to use them."

"'Course," he agrees, nodding.

I pull out the Master's screwdriver then, running my fingers along its cool, smooth length, conforming to the unfamiliar shape as I lift it and direct it towards the ground, the powerful heart of the TARDIS. Apparently the tool sensed its owner's death somehow, because the isomorphic controls seem to have fallen away, leaving it easy enough for me to set the time machine back in gear, ripping free from its restraints.

"There you go, baby," I whisper under my breath, lightly squeezing the golden railing wrapped around her roomy console bay. As her lurching groans of takeoff fill the air, I pace over to my older self, holding out the screwdriver.

"Take it," I instruct quietly. "You know this TARDIS better than I do. Put it in the most secret place possible… like where the fob watch was kept. Don't take it out…"

"Of course not," is his equally soft reply.

"Can I trust you?"

"Can you trust yourself?"

I stare into his eyes—eyes that I'm not quite used to, but surely will adjust to eventually. His question is completely valid. I don't know if I _can _trust myself, and that's the problem. By the time I'm him, I'll surely think myself wiser than the previous regeneration—my current one. I always do, after all. After a long moment of hesitation, I simply shake my head and turn around, squeezing my eyes shut as I grip the railing with both hands. My vocalized response is soft, barely spoken, but I know he can hear it.

"I've got no idea."

* * *

The empty street explodes before me, and I don't flinch.

The others do—duck, cry out, even, as the dark asphalt blooms into a ball of furious orange-and-white flame, with a core of eerily cool blue that I know to be several times hotter than the rest. But I stand straight, knowing that the raging flames are reflected in my eyes, not allowing myself to think about the fact that hundreds of lives were just extinguished, hidden underground, buried in cages, killed trying to claw their way out.

But Moriarty is dead, too. I can tell, as the street begins to collapse in on itself, blackened remains breaking off and crumbling into the concealed tunnels below, filling them quickly. Feel it coursing through my veins—_victory, _horrible, sour victory. He killed the Master, and I killed him in return. Murdered him without a second thought. After Jack got the bombs from Torchwood (which managed to patch itself up remarkably well in our few-day absence with the expertise of Tosh, Owen, and Gwen—the Hub was apparently much more bomb-proof than Moriarty anticipated), we'd simply waited until the street and those surrounding it were absolutely clear of cars and pedestrians (easy enough, since it was a rather abandoned part of the city anyways), then tossed the explosives down the same entrance that Donna and I had first stumbled upon. Stepped back, waited a couple of seconds—_boom. _

The heat presses against my face, furious and suffocating, but I ignore it, standing to face it fully in a final act of defiance. _I'm not going to run away. Not going to run away from this destruction that I've caused. I did it willingly, and I'm not going to allow myself to regret it. _Not going to allow myself to regret so many lives lost, such an innocent boulevard destroyed, so much careful construction wasted. None of it matters to me, only the simplicity and satisfaction of revenge.

_You killed him. I killed you. _

After a long while, a high whining sound can be heard in the distance, and I process vaguely that fire trucks must be coming, to extinguish the flames and save any civilians from the disaster, which will probably be pinpointed as a terrorist bombing rather than the bombing _of _a terrorist. Little do they know, there are no civilians to save. We made sure of that, _I _made sure of that. Even if I am going to kill, I do it in a neat way, a clean one, not wanting to waste any more life than is absolutely necessary.

I don't allow the thought into my mind that perhaps it didn't have to be such a mass destruction, that we might have been able to hunt Moriarty down individually and dispose of him. I have to keep believing that this was the only way, the _best _way, or I swear I'll go insane, I'll finally crack.

Acrid smoke, carried on the dry breeze, rushes down my sinuses, and I cough slightly, finally turning my head away from the raging flames. The sirens are getting louder, and I wave vaguely to everyone. "Back in the TARDIS… we don't want to have any sort of run-in with the police."

They do so without any protest, which is refreshing, I'll admit. I myself pause in the doorway of the bigger-on-the-inside police box, glancing over my shoulder to take in the wreckage one more time.

_You killed him. I killed you. _

_You bastard. _

Then I slip inside, shutting the door behind me and leaving the chaos I induced behind.

* * *

Jack and Ianto are the first to leave. I park the TARDIS outside the somewhat-reconstructed Hub, then sit back and gesture towards the door.

"Go on."

Jack bites at his lip, considering me for a long moment, then suddenly reaches forward, his strong arms wrapping around my lower back as he pulls me in close—not kissing, just hugging, so that my chin rests on his shoulder and I can feel his heart beating through the firm musculature.

"You're strong, Doctor," he promises in a half-whisper. "Stronger than you give yourself credit for."

"I'm really not."

"Yes… yes, you are." He straightens up, steps back, and his eyes move up and down my body as if sizing me up. "Good luck… with everything. We'll all be here at the Hub if you need us. And remember…" His eyes shine bright, almost eagerly hopeful. "It all turns out okay. Right? We're all here now… we're all fine."

"Yeah," I agree distantly, "'course." I don't agree, of course—this is far from okay. Amy lost her husband, Sherlock and John lost each other and themselves, and I lost… I don't even _know _what the Master was to me, in the end. My enemy? My friend? My lover?

Something, in any case, that it hurts to lose.

Ianto and I shake hands as Jack goes about embracing the rest of the crew, paying special attention to Martha and Rose, who he actually knows rather well, I realize. Donna flushes a bit during her turn, and I can tell that Jack notices—he responds with a grin and a wink that cause Ianto to roll his eyes. A chorus of goodbyes fills the air, and then they're out the door, Jack's hands in his coat pockets, Ianto's at his sides. They look happy, almost, and I can tell in their looks at each other that they're glad—glad that their world, other than the Hub itself, remained relatively unscarred after everything. They didn't lose any of their crew… didn't lose each other. And it's _over, _for them.

It's over for everyone except for me.

For me, it's only beginning.

* * *

Mickey and Martha are next. Their directions are vague—"Just drop us somewhere in London," Martha suggests; "we move around a lot, so wherever's fine."

I do so with a nod and a shrug, trying to stay casual but knowing that my silence is pressing down on all of them. They're used to a bubbly, enthusiastic Doctor, not this quiet, sullen man. The truth is that I choose not speaking over venting, afraid that if I let out more than three words at once it might open a space wide enough for my pain to begin flowing through. So I keep my lips pressed tight, working silently over the TARDIS console as the others murmur amongst themselves, exchanging goodbyes and embraces.

I'm probably not going to see Mickey and Martha again after this. It's different from how it was with Jack and Ianto—Torchwood always seems to be able to worm itself into my business. But these two… they're on their own, really, and I already thought I left them more than once. They were pulled back again, but I'm confident that this is the last time. Besides, even if I wasn't relying on my instincts, I can see the look on my other self's eyes—he knows that this is it for him.

That's true, at least. I will get to see them again, in one form… just copies, though, repeats.

I give them hugs, of course I do, holding Martha especially tight. "You did amazing," I promise her, holding as tightly as I can for those last few seconds. Even if I could never be to her what she wanted, it's still undeniable that she was one of the best friends I've ever had, one of the bravest, the most loyal, the most intelligent and dedicated and all-around wonderful. Tears are suddenly burning at the thought of leaving her permanently, but I don't let them fall, just give her one last squeeze and step away. She keeps her hands on my shoulders, though, head tilted up to watch me gently.

"I'll see you later, then? Or you'll see me, at least." Her full lips curve into a smile, and I pretend that I can't see the moisture swimming in her large, dark eyes.

"I suppose so," I agree, and she steps away, her hands falling to her sides and curling into loose, nervous fists. She nods, taking a deep, shaky breath and blinking away the tears. Mickey reaches out, loops an arm around her shoulders, and I meet his gaze, communicating a silent _thank you. _

_Thank you for looking after her. Thank you for being what I couldn't. Thank you for giving her everything that she deserves. _

I don't watch them walk off, but rather close the door immediately, not willing to deal with the metaphorical significance of my former companions moving away, with their backs to me. Instead, I look over the remaining residents of the TARDIS: just Donna, Amy, Rose, and the older Doctor.

"I suppose this is your TARDIS," I say to him. "Donna and I should leave… don't know where ours is, though…" I don't have any worry that it might have been destroyed in the explosion of Moriarty's headquarters; if it managed to evolve into this one, that obviously means that it survived.

"Luckily, I do," he grins, spinning his way over to the console and tapping at one of the screens positioned on it. "I believe that it'll be a simple matter of researching that one alias of Moriarty's that you surely remember Tosh Sato mentioning back at Torchwood… Richard Brook, was it?" A moment later, he swivels the screen around to present me with an image of a large, regal-looking white mansion. "This is Mr. Brook's house, also known as Moriarty's residence for the duration of this whole ordeal. You'll find that he's parked the TARDIS right inside—stopped back there, apparently, before taxiing over to that underground base of his. Want a drop-off?"

"Thanks," I murmur gratefully, nodding. "That would be excellent. And… I'm assuming you only know this because I saw you do it…?"

"Naturally," he declares, sounding almost proud at the construction of the paradox. "Though I'm sure we could've thought it up ourselves. We did, in one way or another."

"True enough." I lean against the railing, running a hand through my hair and unwillingly causing it to stand on end. The three women are on the other side of the console, chatting lightly—it's great to see that Donna and Amy do seem to get along after all—and making it easy enough for me to have a more private conversation with, well, myself. "It doesn't all fit together that nicely, though, does it…? Like the dinosaurs. They were never used for fighting, after all… there wasn't even a battle, just attacks. Rory's death…"

"Rory's death couldn't be changed," he points out gently, though I can tell from the darkness in his eyes that it hurts him more than it does me. Only reasonable, considering that I hadn't even properly gotten to know Rory Williams by the time he was killed. "And that dragon lot wasn't entirely useless, you realize. They're the only way we escaped from that insect army, in any case."

"Not all of us," I reply, thinking of Sherlock and John.

"But most," he reminds me, "most."

I allow this a small shrug, sighing. He doesn't seem about to set the TARDIS in flight, and I assume that that means I'm about to ask something else. _Another paradox. _And speaking of paradoxes…

"How does it work, anyways… both of us here, at once? Last time that happened… it was extremely abnormal, only lasted a few minutes…"

"Fifth, right?"

"Celery stick and all."

He laughs loudly, and the noise surprises me at first—he sounds carefree, practically, genuinely happy. I know myself better than that, and I can see the suffering hidden under the bright layer, but I don't comment on it. We both know it's there, and each knows that the other knows it, and so on and so forth. It doesn't need to be said.

"Well, it _does _happen, believe it or not. I'm sure you remember the old gatherings… first two, first five… there's never a real explanation, is there? Fancy words… eh. Just odd little flaws in the laws of time… pretty convenient ones, too." The corner of his mouth quirks up, and it suddenly strikes me how _alien _he looks—much more so than me. I may not think much of him now, but the truth is that I'm going to become him, whether or not I want to, and I have to admit that the concept doesn't sound quite as dreadful as it did at first. He's smarter than I initially gave him credit for. Older, more tired.

We only share gazes for one more long, tense moment before he whirls around, begins setting the TARDIS's destination. During the whole flight and landing time, I'm thoughtful—not mourning, somehow, not even _sad, _just thoughtful. He manages to stay _cheery _even without material happiness. He's me.

I'll be able to teach myself to do that sometime, and that makes me hopeful.

All too soon, I'm walking to the door, pushing it open and calling Donna over. She bids her farewells to Rose and Amy, then joins me, prancing out instantly and snapping over her shoulder "You'd better be ready to give me that trip to Rome, Space Boy." I'm the last one inside, facing the other three. The Doctor is poised over the console, his shoulders rounded as he leans forward, ready to flip a switch and set them off again. Rose and Amy stand on the other side, their shoulders brushing up against one another in a gesture that isn't quite platonic.

"You're going with them, then?" I ask of Rose.

She nods. "I'm not leaving you, not really. And this TARDIS is used to being cramped… it could use some company."

"Absolutely." I swallow, giving a small nod to each of them in turn. "See you in the future… _be _you in the future," I add in the Doctor's direction.

He flashes me a grin. "Don't rush it."

Then I'm out the door, striding across the tile floor of Moriarty's mansion to where the more worn-looking, paler blue police box sits parked in the middle of a many-couched TV room, Donna leaning against it. I don't turn around at the sounds of the others taking off—no need to linger on the future when I have the present to deal with.

"Off to Rome, then?"

I shake my head, fingering the TARDIS key in my pocket. "Not quite yet… there's somewhere we have to stop by first."

* * *

"They look happy," she murmurs.

_Happy _as a description of Sherlock's high-chinned, straight-mouthed expression would be a bit of an exaggeration, but John certainly seems content enough, an easy smile resting on his face as he walks alongside the dark-coated detective, looking up at him with a kind of casual wonder as the taller man speaks rapidly, moving his hands in an animated explanation of what I assume to be one of his brilliant deductions or theories.

I was worried initially that this idea—going back in time to get a glimpse of Sherlock and John—would do more harm than good, but I don't regret it at all. We're outside 221b Baker Street, which I managed to identify as their address after only a little bit of research; the detective is actually rather well-known, and I have a feeling he would have been nothing short of famous had he been given a little more time.

They're drawing closer as they walk, and I know that Donna and I are going to have to leave soon, before they catch us staring. After all, they didn't recognize it at Moriarty's headquarters, and it has to be kept that way. I give myself a few more seconds, though, just a little bit longer to watch them.

John says something to Sherlock—I'm too far away, can't hear the words, but it changes the detective's expression. His lips part slightly, then all at once pull up into a smile—a real, genuine smile, and it looks _wonderful _on him, sweet and shy and not superior in any way. And it's clear that he hardly even realizes that he's grinning, but John does—John absolutely does, and he laughs, reaching out and squeezing the detective's gloved hand in a wonderfully simple, gentle motion. For just that moment, they're looking at each other, smiling and laughing and touching, and I know that it's time for me to go. That's always my cue to leave—I arrive when they need something, I leave when I know they're content.

"Come on," I say abruptly to Donna, stepping back into the TARDIS with a heavy sigh. She follows me, silent for once, and I make my way over to the console, running my hands over the knobs and switches and levers, taking a deep breath before turning to her.

"So, Rome?"

She doesn't reply at first, just considers me quietly, then gives a tiny, sad smile. "This is what you always do, isn't it?" she asks. "You take care of all of them… even if you know it won't turn out happy, you need to make sure that they're happy at some point… you make their lives worth living."

"I didn't need to do that for Sherlock and John," I shoot back, a bit uncomfortable that she can see through me so easily. "They had each other. Their lives were already worth living."

"But you had to see that for yourself. Seeing others happy… that's what keeps you going, in the end. That's how you stand all that death."

"I suppose it is," I allow, then turn back to the console, unable to let my mind dwell on the truth any longer. I want to allow myself to forget, like I always do. Forget, that is, until I have to go through all this again, next regeneration.

I set the coordinates for Rome.


	13. SEQUEL

**Hello again, readers!**

This is an announcement to let you know that, at long last, the sequel to this story is up. The title is "When They Missed Your Heart," and it contains the addition of characters from Supernatural. It's twenty chapters long, plus a prologue and epilogue (though only the prologue is up now; the others will come once a week, like this one did). I hope you'll take the time to check it out!


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